


Six Fics

by Terrantalen



Series: Boosh Fics [3]
Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Boatloads of Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Light Bondage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, just wait
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22566940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terrantalen/pseuds/Terrantalen
Summary: Basically, a collection of six Howince ficlets that I wrote as character studies and decided to complete because I obviously have problems.Porn and fluff, but mostly porn.
Relationships: Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Series: Boosh Fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1565512
Comments: 48
Kudos: 55





	1. Nowhere Else

Vince pushes Howard backward and Howard loses his balance and tumbles into the shelf behind him, knocking over some of the stock. Howard tries to see what it is that’s fallen, see if he’s going to trod on it or anything, but he doesn’t get the chance. Vince pounces on him, his mouth and his hands spreading like wildfire all over him. It feels like Vince is an octopus, like he’s got more hands than he should, they travel over Howard’s body so fast and just everywhere.

They are going to get caught doing this, one day, Howard realizes, as Vince slides his hand up Howard’s inner thigh and palms his cock. They can’t keep on like this forever, shagging in the storage cupboard while they’re ‘on lunch’, or ‘restocking’ or whatever the day’s excuse is— Howard groans as Vince’s lips pinch his nipple through his rollneck. Vince laughs, low and dirty, and starts undoing Howard’s zip.

Howard can’t believe he just goes along with all this. He should object. He should say no. He’s got no desire to have someone see him like this...

Like this, as in letting his prick get fished out of his pants and played with, while Vince leans into him, nipping with teeth, now, at his nipples which have gone diamond hard, oh, fuck, his own hands full of Vince’s tight little arse, his train of thought careening off the edge of an unfinished track and into a canyon where all he can concentrate on is Vince and his skin, and his teeth, and his _scent_.

He’s so full of him, so impossibly full of him, it’s like he’s being possessed, like he’s got the Spirit of Jazz in him, only he’s got the Spirit of Vince instead. Every bit of him is Vince’s to control; Howard can’t do anything to fight it. Only Vince can decide to perform the exorcism, if he even wants to, and Howard hasn’t got a say about what Vince does with him until he relinquishes his hold.

Vince’s breathing is ragged, loud in the close space of the cupboard. He barely takes any trouble, Howard thinks, the thought trailing off aimless as smoke floating up into the air. About the noise, that is. 

He doesn’t talk through the sex as he sometimes does when they’re alone, he doesn’t shout or whine like he does when he rides Howard’s cock, but he still vocalizes. Groans when he looks down at Howard’s cock, moans when Howard arches his back against the tension that already threatens to snap him in half; all of it communicates to Howard that, in spite of Howard’s own passivity, Vince is as wound up as he is.

That’s what embarrasses him. The way he just lets it happen and can’t seem to get his feet under him to make something happen himself. If he were the one shoving Vince into the corner, the one sliding down onto his knees and wrapping his lips around Vince’s prick... at least he’d be doing something.

But, as Vince kneels, as his fingers dig into Howard’s soft hips and force him backward, it’s all Howard can do to keep himself standing.

How, how, _how_ does Vince want to do this, _this_ much?

It’s a question for which there is no answer. He just does, and Howard should just shut up about it and let it happen.

Which he does.

Vince opens his mouth, tucks into Howard’s cock like he needs to get it down his throat before it goes cold. His tongue is slightly rough on the underside, the sides of his cheeks (as he hollows them out) are smoother than velvet. His lips are a buffer from his teeth but Howard feels the firmness of them threatening just beneath. Vince reaches back, cups Howard’s balls.

Howard presses his shoulders into the shelf, “Vince,” he hisses weakly, tossing his head back, fighting against the incessant pull of Vince’s mouth.

He looks down and Vince is touching himself, his own cock in his fist, stroking himself with every sweep up and down Howard’s prick, like he doesn’t think Howard will do it for him if he’d only give him the chance.

Howard _wants_ the chance, he wants to be the one to make Vince lose it, just as sure as Vince is going to make him lose it in five...

Vince angles his head down, Howard’s cock slips into his throat...

Four...

Vince swallows against his reflexive gag...

Three...

Howard feels the muscles of Vince’s throat bunch around the head of his prick...

Two...

His balls are so tight, they feel like they’re going to burst...

One...

Howard groans. Pleasure explodes from the end of his prick and he can’t believe...

Vince swallows him down then pulls away, grinning up at him like Howard has just done something amazing rather than doing as his body unthinkingly demanded. His hand has stilled on his cock, the head of it looks slick, but he hasn’t come.

Howard wants to make him come. He grabs the open collar of Vince’s shirt and hauls him to his feet. 

Surprise flashes in Vince’s eyes, he’s not expecting Howard to take any sort of initiative, but, so help him, Howard can, and he will. He wraps an arm around Vince’s waist, kisses him, the taste of his own semen hardly registers, and he reverses their positions so that Vince is in the corner.

Howard breaks their kiss and Vince is still stunned by this reversal in fortune as Howard pushes aside the shirt (it’s barely covering Vince’s tits in any case) and licks a wide circle around Vince’s nipple.

“Howard,” Vince whispers hoarsely, as Howard keeps his trajectory in a downward direction.

He sinks to his knees. He glances up and Vince is staring down at him fretfully, like he’s afraid Howard’s gone rabid and is going to bite him, or, like he’s afraid Howard isn’t actually going to suck him off. He hasn’t got anything to worry about on either score. 

Howard looks back at Vince’s cock, it bobs just before he wraps his hand around the base and sucks the thing into his mouth.

“Fuck, Howard, oh, Jesus fucking Christ,” Vince says.

Catch him now, Howard Moon the cocksucker, the ball licker, the one who gets to make Vince Noir sound as brainless as he makes out to be. He’s got about a four-word vocabulary when his cock is in Howard’s mouth, and one of those words is Howard’s name.

Howard sucks and pumps, he twists Vince’s cock in his fist, and rolls Vince’s balls in his palm. 

When he comes, Howard is expecting it. 

He knows, from the tone of Vince’s voice, when he’s close; knows from the way his hips are shaking and his hands are tangling in Howard’s hair, from the way he sighs out, blissful and ecstatic, precisely when he’s ready.

Howard will never describe himself as a huge fan of the taste of semen. It’s just not that great, but he still swallows, and sucks Vince’s cock clean until Vince is shuddering and laughing and calling him a filthy old bastard.

Vince slides down to the floor and then wraps Howard in his arms. He kisses Howard sedately, like they’ve got all day _now_. 

It’s faintly ridiculous, the pair of them with dropped trousers, kissing and holding one another, knelt on the somewhat dusty floor of the stock cupboard like they, neither of them, would rather be anywhere else, but neither of them mention it, and neither of them laugh, and Howard wonders if it’s possible that it’s true; that neither of them would rather be anywhere else.


	2. Jumble Sale Sunday

The sun is slanting narrowly through the front windows of the flat as Howard takes the burbling kettle off the stove. He pours himself a cuppa, watches the tea steep for a moment in the steaming hot water then gives it a stir. He’s the first person up most days and today is no exception. The flat is silent and peaceful in the mornings when it’s just him. He’s always relished it, this little pocket of quiet, private time.

He takes his tea over to the kitchen table where he’s already got the morning paper waiting for him. He takes a sip and opens the paper to the arts section. He tries to find something to catch his interest, and something should do, there is a jazz festival at the end of the month that looks interesting, there’s a review for the new Jurgen Haabermaaster film, _Exit Purchase_ , which the critic claims is ‘an unsettling journey through the mind of man in his infancy’, but he can’t get beyond the first sentence of anything without needing to go back and start over. 

He gives up the paper and thinks about going into his room and picking out a record, maybe trancing out a bit to some diminished 7ths and phyrigian 3rds, but he’s not completely positive that he could trance today, even if he tried. 

The truth is, he doesn’t want to do anything but replay some key events from the night before.

He sees Vince’s pale skin under his hands, sees gold sequins piled like a dragon’s hoard at the foot of the sofa, and, gratifying as all of that is, it’s the next bit that keeps getting fast-tracked into his brain. The feel of clean, silky hair tickling under his nose, the bony edge of Vince’s chin pressed against his shoulder, his hand sneaking into Howard’s, the heat of his body burning through soft cotton...

Truth is, he doesn’t want to replay events. He wants to understand them. One plus one should equal two, but how do you know if you’ve got one and one, or one and zero, or one and twenty, and, what the fuck is he meant to be adding up in any case?

He wants to stick to facts, to let reason and logic help him sort it, but that’s not as easy to do as it sounds. It’s all gone topsy-turvy, lately. It made more sense before... in a way that made Howard vaguely miserable, sure, but this is just confusing. 

Last night _was_ unusual anyway. Not the typical Saturday. That’s a fact. Not something he could ever have conceived of even as few as four months ago.

Back then, Vince had taken to spending entire weekends in some vague elsewhere that Howard was never able to discover. Vince would wave goodbye on Saturday and vanish like the murder weapon in a Poirot. There was evidence of him, but he, himself... he was just gone.

He’d always come back, of course, but he barely bothered to offer an excuse for why he’d departed Howard’s orbit. He’d just waltz in at whichever day and hour suited him. If Howard ever asked, Vince would offer him the obligatory nonsense, _some cats hot-glued me to the side of a bus,_ and wouldn’t say what had really kept him out.

There would always be evidence of that too, though. Lippy smudged on his cheek, or lovebites blooming on his neck like a fungus, and always that well-fucked grin that used to set Howard’s teeth on edge.

He never understood why he hated it so much. Why it was that it felt almost worse to see Vince come home than it did to see him go, but some things have been pulled into a sharper focus, honed into a fine point, put under a spotlight, given an underline and an exclamation point. He gets it now.

It wasn’t just getting left alone on the bulk of the weekend shifts down in the shop, it wasn’t just the casual reentry into Howard’s life, like Vince assumed everything went on pause if he wasn’t around to see it. 

It’s because Howard has always wanted to be the one to get Vince to look like that, like he’s been fucked seven ways to blissful Sunday.

And now, surreal as it feels, and seems, and fucking _is_ , he is. It’s him, unbelievably, that Vince turns to when he fancies attention _of the sexual variety_. 

He should be happy enough with that. He is happy enough with that. Christ, it’s more than he ever hoped for in his wildest dreams. It’s just that, sometimes, he’s not sure what it is that he’s meant to be… feeling. 

He’s not always sure what it is that he does feel. Vince has always made him run the gamut. 

Uneasy, annoyed, amused, irritated, guilty, surprised, delighted, comforted; Vince spins him around like one of those teacup rides at an amusement park, and has done since Howard met him.

But now, it’s worse. So much worse. Better, too, but worse as well. The highs are higher, the lows are lower. It’s not just a ride anymore; it’s life or death. He gets capitulated up and down recklessly. He’s sailing in typhoon-rough seas, dizzy and seasick, and pretty sure he’s doomed to end up at the bottom of the ocean (alone), but then the clouds clear and blue skies peek through and a little circle of calm surrounds him and he thinks... he doesn’t know what to think.

He’s always hideously unsure about what any of it _means_ , or if it should mean anything at all.

Last night... had started typically enough. 

Saturdays are the roller disco for Naboo and Bollo, Bollo behind the turntables, Naboo in the darker corners where illegal activity might not be noticed. It is understood that Vince will go out. Not like he used to, not with no set return date; no, he’s always careful to come back before last call, well before Naboo and Bollo, so that he and Howard... well, anyway, Vince goes out, Howard stays home. He doesn’t mind the solitude. It gives him time to read, or to catch up with Lester if he wants, or... whatever. No one is there so Howard can do whatever he likes.

So, when Bollo packed up his equipment, and Naboo started secreting little bags of whatever it is he sells around his person, and Vince dressed and undressed himself some two-dozen times, it didn’t seem like it was meant to be anything but an ordinary Saturday. Howard settled in on the sofa with the first book he found on his shelf and pretended to ignore it each time Vince came out of his room to sound Bollo out on his outfits.

Bollo tossed about the _magnifiques!_ and _miraculeux’s!_ like confetti at a parade while Howard stared at the pages of his Kafka without absorbing a line. After familiar and shaman had departed, it was Howard who had to hear all of Vince’s chattering.

Little comments about the club opening he was meant to go to, little teases, or flirts, things that Howard did his best to ignore. It’s the one weapon he has, pretending that Vince doesn’t affect him when he _does_ , and Howard employs it mercilessly. To the best of his ability.

It wasn’t until Vince was standing in the kitchen, his shimmering outfit itching at the edge of Howard’s peripheral vision, that he could no longer prevent himself from stealing a look.

Vince is an expert at transforming himself into whatever he wants to be. Last night, he’d been a shining golden siren, his hair teased just the right amount, makeup just enough to accentuate his natural endowments; he’d looked like a walking temptation. 

As soon as Howard looked at him, Vince had tossed his hair this way and that, moved just enough that Howard couldn’t fail to notice how his outfit sparkled, _almost as much as his eyes_ , which were so fucking alive, and excited, like the stupid club he was going to was going to be every bit as _genius_ as he kept telling Howard it would be.

Then, he’d given Howard the most blinding, most dazzling, most radiant smile he’s got on tap and asked, all shy and sweet, if Howard wouldn’t like to come along. Wouldn’t he like to be out with the rest of London, doing what Londoners ought on a Saturday—namely getting pissed and dancing until the house lights came up?

Howard’s impulse is to agree, to say yes to whatever Vince wants. It’s a bit like getting asked to have sugar suddenly become health food; it doesn’t make sense _not_ to, but Howard is a stronger man than he used to be.

He made himself refuse. 

Clubs have long since lost their attraction for him, might, in fact, be less attractive now than they ever were, particularly in Vince’s company. It’s a little much, is all. Watching people eye-fuck his… watching people eye-fuck Vince like Howard isn’t right fucking there. But, of course, why shouldn’t they? Vince is _available_ , Howard is just his weird best mate. He hasn’t got rights over him.

Doesn’t stop the instinct, though, the little coil of _back the fuck off_ he wants to unleash every time some berk gets a little too close to Vince, or some girl presses her tits against his arm while she’s trying to _sneak past_ him on a crowded dancefloor.

If Howard had agreed to go, Vince wouldn’t have given him a second glance anyway, not once he was surrounded by the cool, hip, trendsetters that he calls his friends; the cube-headed berks, the worshipful slackjaws, the glitter-addicted strumpets who spring out of every corner the second Vince arrives; those are the people who would have absorbed every ounce of his attention, not drab, boring, there-any-time-you-want-him Howard. 

Howard isn’t possessive by nature. He really isn’t, and he wouldn’t give a shit about any of it if only Vince would just _look_ at him at clubs, or just fucking put a hand on him, or somehow acknowledge that, yeah, alright, everyone with eyes and a functioning libido might want to get at him, but he doesn’t want to get anywhere but at Howard. That’s all he needs. Crumbs of assurance would be enough to sustain him.

But that’s not how it goes. Christ, Vince used to lean into him, used to loop his arm around Howard’s waist at clubs back when they weren’t fucking. Now that they are, is it really too much to ask for just…

Howard shakes his head. It doesn’t matter. Point is, Vince had asked, then pouted, then charmed, even tried begging a bit and Howard had remained resolute. He’s still, frankly, a little proud of himself for not giving in, for being ready to let Vince to have a strop and storm out of the flat. Yes, sir, he’d been completely prepared to have a tiff and then endure a whole night of wondering when (if) Vince would return… but he hadn’t had to.

Vince had pouted and whinged, and Howard had refused and Vince had said _fine_ and then he’d sat down in his dazzling gold clubwear next to Howard on the sofa. Howard had asked him what he was doing and Vince had just said _this_.

 _This_ , it turned out, was tearing _The Metamorphosis_ out of Howard’s hands, tossing it across the room, and crawling into Howard’s lap and snogging him like he was doing it for money. Things had followed a natural course, after that. Except, at the end, Vince hadn’t done what Howard had mostly assumed he would, which was get cleaned up, get dressed again, and then go out post shag. Instead he’d stayed home. On a Saturday. With Howard. 

He’d taken a shower, put on pajamas, and they’d watched films of _Howard’s_ choosing, cuddled up together like… and then Vince had pulled Howard into his room for another go before Naboo and Bollo got back, and Howard had even slept there for a bit with Vince’s head on his chest, his arm draped over Vince’s back, skin against skin, the best and most comfortable he’s felt in fucking ages. 

When he’d got up to go back to his room, Vince had stirred just enough to wrap his arms around Howard’s waist, like he didn’t want him to go, but of course Howard had to, so he’d just prised Vince’s fingers loose and left him even though he’d really liked to have stayed.

Howard doesn’t know what to make of any of it. Vince trying so hard to get him to go out, of him just staying in when he couldn’t, of the not-wholly-necessary-to-their-other-activities snuggling and cuddling, and… whatnot.

He’s pleased. Isn’t he? He is. 

It feels risky to be pleased, though.

Best not read too much into it. It probably doesn’t mean anything. Vince would snuggle a cactus if he were hard up enough for physical contact. That he’d not gone out is probably just him ‘creating scarcity’ like he’s a fucking commodity that can only go up in value the less of him there is to go around.

Anyway, Howard isn’t going to let himself be fooled, won’t let himself get too attached. 

Even when he knows he’s already stuck on Vince like a cotton ball on Velcro. 

Howard hears the creak of a door down the hall, the scuff of boot heel on the hardwood, and he looks over at the clock in disbelief. It’s only seven thirty. It’s impossible that a fully dressed Vince has just emerged from his room, but he stands at the end of the hall, just the same.

He smiles upon seeing Howard at the kitchen table, “All right?” he asks with a nod. He opens the freezer and gets out the frozen waffles.

“What are you doing up?” Howard asks as he watches Vince remove two of the waffles and jam them into the toaster.

Vince wipes his hands on his thighs. Little crumbs of ice and waffle scatter across the floor. Howard is too surprised that Vince is even awake to be annoyed that he’s going to have to sweep them up later. 

“Come on, Howard,” Vince says with a grin. “Can’t you tell? It’s Jumble Sale Sunday.”

Shit.

Howard hates Jumble Sale Sunday. 

It only comes but once a year, the perfect Sunday in early autumn, when every parish in London, every middle class arsehole with a scrap of front garden, every single soul in the whole of the metropolitan area, in unison, cries out that this, this is the Sunday of the jumble sale.

Vince can sense it in the air like a bloodhound scenting a steak.

Howard looks him over, and it’s not a drill. Vince has got his jumbling outfit on. It’s a metallic blue jumpsuit, a little looser and more conservative than the norm, one with _pockets_ , the heel on his boots kept to a sensible two inches. It’s as big a concession to comfort as Vince ever makes.

Jumble Sale Sunday is a marathon, a hellish endurance test that will last all day, or, at least until 3:00, when most people get tired of waiting around in lawn chairs for idiots to come buy their old junk.

Howard has one and only one hope.

“Leroy swinging round to pick you up, then?” he prays that Leroy is available, that Vince has made arrangements with him. Leroy, after all, understands the appeal of the jumble sale better than Howard, he knows which things to draw Vince’s attention to and which things Vince can be allowed to ignore. He is, undoubtedly, Vince’s first choice of jumbling companion. 

Vince turns, he looks at Howard winsomely, “Actually, Leroy got scheduled at the copy center today.”

“On a Sunday?” Howard asks.

Vince shrugs, “Yeah, I guess they’re going twenty-four hours, or something.” He runs his hand through the back of his as yet unstyled hair and it cascades around his shoulders. He leans back against the counter so that his body is stretched in a long, appealing line. “So,” he says, and lets the word hang in the air.

Howard glances around, looking for anything that could serve as a plausible escape, “Er…” he says, his eyes land on the stairs, “The shop!” he says excitedly. “Can’t both go jumbling, can we? The shop needs minding. Yes, sir.”

“Oh,” Vince says, but he says it like he was expecting this excuse, and if he was expecting it, he’s planned for it, and if he’s planned for it, Howard is in trouble. “It’s just that I talked to Naboo,” _fuck_ , “and he said that it would be good for us to go pick up more stock today, so, actually, we sort of will be minding the shop.”

“Ah,” Howard says. 

Vince smiles, “Anyway, it could be fun, couldn’t it?”

“I don’t—”

And then Vince plays his ace, “We stayed in last night, just like you wanted, so, I think going jumbling with me would only be fair.”

Howard feels as though he’s been slapped in the face with a live squid. _The conniving little tit_ , “Did you... did you plan this?”

Vince’s teeth pinch his lip. His whole face utters a sly _maybe_ , but he immediately says, “No. Course not. I just didn’t fancy going out much.” Which is obviously a lie. You don’t spend three hours getting ready if you don’t fancy going out much. Vince looks shyly pleased before he adds, quietly, “I stayed in with you because I wanted to.” 

Powerless. That’s what Howard is. Powerless to look away.

Vince’s smile twists a shade darker. He takes a few steps toward Howard. _Stalks_ toward him, is more like. His legs cross in front of one another, his hips tilt from side to side. His silver Chelsea boots come to a stop just inches in front of Howard’s slippers.

Vince crouches down, puts his hands on Howard’s knees, and tilts his face up so that Howard is forced to look down into his eyes. 

Looking into his eyes is like looking out the door of a plane you’re meant to leap from. It’s awing, and petrifying, and bloody beautiful, and, somehow, intensely intimate; just the two of them, Howard and the beautiful blue horizon, the cold air whistling by his nose, the promise of blissful terror ahead if he can only make himself take one little step forward. 

Howard’s head spins.

Vince has paralyzed him. He knows it. 

He leans toward him, kisses Howard sweetly. The bottom drops out and Howard wants to believe.

_Last night and now this…_

Vince breaks the kiss, leans back just enough so that Howard’s eyes don’t cross when he looks at him again. “Please, Howard?”

He’s ready to acquiesce. No one alive could resist this, Howard least of all, but then Vince smirks and adds, “You can carry the bags.”

And Howard snaps out of it. 

“There we go,” he says. “I’m meant to be your pack animal, am I? Nothing so much as an unthinking mule. Well, why don’t you get Bollo to go in that case. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to spare you the burden of carrying twenty tons of clothes and whatever other bits and bobs you pick up today.”

Vince sighs, he stands up. The toaster pops and he goes to retrieve his waffles. He tosses them carelessly onto a plate and then gets out the jar of Nutella and smears one with it. He turns around, his hand falls onto his hip, “I don’t want Bollo. I…” he shakes his head and rolls his eyes, “I just thought it would be nice for you to come with me. I thought we could have a day off together. Do something we don’t usually get to do. Couldn’t you just not be a dick and do something that I want for a change?”

Howard gives Vince a pointed look. If anyone does more than their fair share of things that the other person wants to do, it’s him. He’s constantly giving in to whatever demands Vince makes of him, always bending whichever way Vince asks him to. If he makes a stand on Jumble Sale Sunday, it’s only fair, and Howard is ready to tell Vince all of this, ready, again, to let Vince stomp off to have a sulk, but then the words die on his lips.

Vince has more than one trick up his sleeve to manipulate him. Kisses and touches, and little shifts of posture and expression, but this… the way he’s looking at Howard now, he just looks… hurt. 

Of course, a moment later, he looks annoyed and Howard isn’t sure if he’s just a toy on a string being jerked about. If he is, though… at least Vince cares enough to do some pulling.

“Alright,” Howard sighs. “Yeah, okay. I’ll come along.”

Vince lights up. Ten-thousand watts of joy electrify the flat, and Howard is overwhelmed by the change that he’s affected. This is why it works, all of Vince’s… everything. Just give him what he wants and see the laser lightshow. 

_It’s just for you, Howard!_

Even though it isn’t.

“Genius!” Vince says, rubbing his hands together. He picks up the plate of waffles and brings it over to the table. He takes the one he’s slathered with Nutella and pushes the plain one toward Howard. He has a bite of waffle that leaves a smear of Nutella on his top lip that he licks off before he says, “I’ll go get the petty cash Naboo’s left us. If I get my hair started now, we can make it to St. Mark’s for 9:00. I’ll be right back.”

Vince turns on his heel, practically dances down the hallway, tonelessly whistling _Cars_ as he goes.

Howard looks down at the waffle he didn’t ask for, the waffle left suspiciously free of Nutella, like Vince meant it for him all along. He sighs, picks it up and takes a bite. He’s going to need something to get him through the day ahead, after all.

It’s not like it was totally deliberate. That’s the truth. Vince _was_ supposed to go out last night, he had planned to the entire time he was getting ready, but he’d been sure that he could get Howard to go too. Not that he can’t have a good time on his own (he can) and he knows that the more he and Howard go out together around people who know them, the sooner it is that someone is going to do a quick assessment and realize something must be going on, so it probably makes sense for Howard to stay home after all, but still.

He likes it; he and Howard knowing what no one else does (yet), and just putting enough out there that someone else might figure it out.

As much fun as that is, though, this is better. Howard wouldn’t have danced, anyway, and he doesn’t care for crowds and noise, so, yeah, clubs aren’t really his bag, and even though Jumble Sale Sunday isn’t really his bag either, this (walking down London streets on a lovely September day) (sunshine, fresh air, flowers still blooming in window boxes while trees are just starting to turn) at least feels like a holiday. Just like Vince thought it would.

Anyway, it’s genius, this; shopping with someone else’s money, and Vince hasn’t paid full price for _anything_. He’s been bargaining away like a Canadian fur trader, snapping up knock offs, and sixties vintage, and having a whale of a time; and, even though Howard is acting pretty put-out by the whole thing, he’s still acting his part well enough (if the looks they’re getting are any indication). 

All in all, Vince has had a very successful shop, a really wonderful day, and Howard… well, alright, he’s not exactly been thrilled, but Vince has been trying to keep him interested. 

It’s not stringing him along, not really, because Vince has every intention of making good on the promises he’s making, can think of little else (when he hasn’t got his hands on some worthy piece of fashion), he’s having a hard time remembering that he’s not supposed to flirt _outrageously_ with Howard in public. 

He wishes he could, but it isn’t impossible for them to see someone they know (Vince counts his blessings that they haven’t run into Leroy already) (that’ll be a fucking argument, for sure, if they do) and with one thing and another, well, it’s better for him to control his impulses.

He limits himself to the occasional tap on Howard’s arm, the occasional too-long touch that turns into a caress, the faintest little edge to his smiles, so that Howard can’t fail to understand (he hopes) (stick it out with me now and later, you’re going to have the time of your life) (promise). 

Vince is happy he’s here, happy that they’re out and about _together_ somewhere where he can pretend Howard is _with_ him and not just accompanying him.

He knows they’re not on a date. They don’t date. They shag. They work the shop. They have evenings in with takeaway and bad films on the telly, but they _do not_ date.

So, this isn’t a date. 

It’s just Jumble Sale Sunday. 

But Vince can pretend, as Howard follows him past table after table of second hand goods from Dalston, to Hackney, to Bethnal Green, that maybe (if you squint) (if you catch it from the side before it has a chance to notice) (if you say its name three times into a dark mirror) that it _is_.

The day has moved into the afternoon as they enter the final churchyard he has planned for them to visit. The crowd here is mostly mums with kids clinging to their legs, pensioners in glasses and cardigans, thrifty looking girls with the occasional put-upon boyfriend or husband, who follow behind their significant others like under-inflated balloons on strings, each of _them_ wearing the same bored, agonized look that Howard has got. 

Vince doesn’t turn around and point and shout _see I’ve got one too!_ but as he swims through the crowd like a tropical fish through a mackerel pond, people look at him in his glimmering jumpsuit and his silver boots, and he hopes they all see Howard too, shuffling just behind him (his accessory) (better than sunglasses or a handbag) (undeniably _his_ ) (well, at least, it _might_ look that way) (if you catch it from the side…) and he feels just a little dizzy.

It feels like something, Howard agreeing to do this, and not complaining overmuch about it (he wants it to be _something_ ).

Vince walks past tables of old video game consoles, past boxes of musty smelling books, past a woman who has got an entire table of tiny plastic Smurfs laid out in front of her, and heads toward the clothes.

He pauses just behind two girls, one fair and one dark, who, like Vince, are clearly jumbling addicts. They seem to be having a bit of an argument over a turquoise and gold lamp, and whose living room it would look best in. He doesn’t want to get involved in that, so he leaves them to their lamp and continues on his way.

There isn’t much here that strikes his fancy. It’s been pretty picked over already, not to mention the men’s clothes are well boring. It’s a lot of white shirts, tan suits, the sort of things you’d want for starting a middle-management position someplace. He turns to where he can see a rack of women’s clothing and starts browsing there.

Vince toys with some red trousers, trails his fingers over a leather jacket. Nothing too special. There is a nice black shirt, though. He takes it out of the rack and examines it. It’s silk, has some silver sequins spangling the bottom. He could definitely take it home, spiff it up a bit, resell it down in the shop if he didn’t end up wanting it for himself.

He turns to look for Howard, to sound him out on it. He’s standing about ten feet distant, carrying so many bags that he looks like a bum’s shopping trolley, like someone’s whole life has been packed onto him. 

Vince has spent Naboo’s money, has spent quite a bit of his own, has even gotten Howard to spend a little of his (records will do it to him every time), so, realistically, they could have probably skipped this last stop, could have already headed home, but Vince hasn’t wanted the illusion to end. Even now, he wants to keep it going, just a little longer.

“Hey, Howard?” he calls through a smile.

Howard turns toward him with dull eyes. He sighs and walks over to where Vince is. 

“What do you think?” Vince asks. He holds the shirt up to himself and twists back and forth so that the sequins sparkle in the sun.

Howard shrugs (the bags rustle and crinkle in his arms), “Yeah, I don’t know. Whatever.”

Vince tilts his head, “Come on, you must think something. Should I buy it or not?”

“I don’t know. Do you like it?”

Vince rolls his eyes, “I’m asking if _you_ like it.”

“I guess,” he says listlessly (he’s been put through hell) (endured more dullness than any human should be asked to) (he just wants to go home). 

Vince sighs as he looks at the shirt. The truth is, he doesn’t really like it that much and if he spends the last of his euros, it’s definitely over. In fact, just the thought of going home has completely turned him off on it. He almost puts it back then and there, but then he looks at Howard again and it’s apparent he’s well and truly had it. 

It is starting to get hot, and they’ve been out all day, and, yeah, Vince’s feet are starting to smart a bit so…

Fine.

He gathers the unwanted shirt up, looks around for someone to hand his euros to, but then he gets an idea. A way to avoid going home straight away and to give Howard a bit of a treat. He does feel he owes him something a little extra, anyway, for putting him through, what is obviously, his equivalent of a three-hour lecture on the mating cycle of frogs.

Vince shakes the shirt out again. He shifts his weight to one side and looks up at Howard, “Well, I can either buy this shirt,” he says, “or I can get us ice creams on the way home, so make up your mind.”

“Ice creams?” Howard asks hopefully. He’s got an embargo on sweets, won’t allow himself any biscuits, or cakes, but he hasn’t quite got round to banning ice creams.

“Yeah,” Vince says. “You want one?”

Howard nods, “Sure. I mean, you’ve got loads of new clothes today, haven’t you?”

Vince looks at the bags that Howard is carrying, “Yeah, plenty. Come on, then. Let’s take a walk through the park and we’ll see if we can’t find a van.”

Howard agrees. They leave the church yard and Vince heads toward the park. He walks next to Howard, makes sure to match him stride for stride. It’s easier to do than you might think.

Howard has longer legs, but Vince moves more quickly. He’s always had a bit of a restlessness in him, can’t really stand it if he doesn’t feel like he’s getting _somewhere_ fast enough, even if he’s not really going anywhere at all. His natural hurry matches Howard’s long, loping stride perfectly.

He could reach over and take some of the bags from Howard, it’d be easy enough, and probably, you know, nice, or whatever, but he doesn’t. It would destroy the illusion he’s trying to build. They’re clearly together, one larger, stronger, and carrying all the parcels, the other flashy and delicate and carrying nothing. He knows how the imbalance makes strangers read the situation: _couple_ and not just _mates_. 

Does Howard realize it too? Is he taking the fucking hint?

Vince catches his eye and smiles at him and Howard looks away (probably not).

They enter the park and the vast green space opens around them. They walk by a cricket match and some kids mucking about on a pitch. The sounds of traffic grow more distant. Puffs of cloud hang in the sky, gauzy and billowing. He's grown so used to walking in the shadow of buildings, to having dirty pavements under his shoes, to being out in the city at night, to eavesdropping on the harsh, whispered conversation of rats, that it almost feels odd, being out in the day, and in the grass, hearing birds and squirrels arguing with one another. 

He slows down a little, tries to ease back to a bit of a stroll and Howard (subconsciously) matches him.

They walk toward the pond, Vince turns the conversation to the records Howard has purchased (it’s only fair if he gets to bore Vince a bit too) and he listens to Howard natter on about dynamic bass and polyphonic rhythms as they move through patches of sun and shade. It’s so peaceful, and bloody-well _nice_ , that it’s a good job Howard’s hands are full of parcels, if they weren’t, he’d probably reach over to hold one of them.

Vince catches the faintest hint of _Greensleeves_. An ice-cream van is near. As they come around a band of trees, Vince spots it. About fifty kids are crowded around it, the thick arms of the vendor peek from the shaded interior of the van collecting money and dispensing ice cream.

The van is one of the better ones that has all types of ice creams, not just your standard ice lollies and Cornettos. Vince looks over the menu from a place of relative calm outside the churning morass of shouting kids.

“What do you want?” he asks after a few minutes of browsing.

“A ninety-nine.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes,” Howard says.

“Monkey blood or no?”

Howard shakes his head. 

“Alright,” Vince says (though the decision is questionable) (trust Howard to want boring ice cream on top of everything else). He trots up to where the queue starts.

He keeps looking back at Howard while he waits, for some reason unable to stop himself from watching him where he stands in dappled shade underneath a tree. He keeps thinking that the light is good for him, the balance just right, his hair looking russet rather than dirt, his orange rollneck and brown cardigan somehow appropriately autumnal rather than dredging up the very worst of the seventies.

He’s actually handsome. Sometimes (like now) it hits Vince in a wave. Howard is good-looking. Fucking fit. He’s a bit like Sean Bean, standing there against the grass, all Northern and determined, like he’s just ridden up on a charger, all impatient to kill the dragon and fuck the princess…

Jesus, he’s got no idea, either. He’s just peering at the duck pond, oblivious. Vince could look at him for a thousand years and Howard would never notice.

“Oi, mate, you want something?” asks a gruff voice and Vince realizes he’s at the front of the queue.

He gets Howard his ninety-nine, gets a strawberry cone for himself. He pays the vendor with the last of his cash. He saunters back toward Howard, and Howard watches him approach, and, yeah, it’s… something. Howard’s eyes on him. He always wants to do something when Howard is looking at him, something to make him look harder or more, or… he just wants Howard to _see_ him.

He’s seeing him now.

Vince is stupidly pleased. He feels the smile that’s splitting his face, knows that it’s probably too wide to be sexy, but he doesn’t care. He’s happy (Howard’s happy too), they’re going to have ice cream (maybe Vince can get him to sit with him on a park bench next to the pond), they’re not on a date (they’re not) (he knows that) but, it’s _sofuckingclose_ (just lean in for a kiss when you hand him the ice cream) (don’t) (or fucking do) that even he believes that it could be. 

He hands the ice cream over to him, smiles and Howard just smiles right back, and, yeah, probably he would go in for a kiss at this point (risk or no, he can’t help himself when Howard looks so fucking sweet) but then something happens.

The something is some kid on a bike who comes from nowhere, knocks into the bags on Howard’s left side (the kid shouts a thoroughly insincere _excuse me_ as he pedals away) Howard’s arm gets jogged and he spins, and there goes his ninety-nine, straight down (Howard’s face falls along with the ice cream) (tumbles out of the air 60,000 feet) (crashes and burns with the sound of a wet splat). The ninety-nine lands, ice cream side down, directly atop an anthill.

“Gah!” Howard shouts.

It is, immediately, the funniest thing Vince has ever seen. He doubles over with laughter, because this _would_ happen to Howard. Beautiful sunny day, warm, but not too hot, everything as ideal as it ever gets, and the universe looks down, sees Howard Moon and says, _Having an ice cream? Not so fucking fast!_ and slaps it straight out of his hand.

When Vince looks up at Howard again, he’s glaring at him, clearly betrayed. Vince can’t stop laughing, but he does say, “Sorry,” a few times between breathless chuckles.

“Yeah, fine,” Howard says eventually. He looks down at the cone, “Shit,” he says. It’s well apparent that he really wanted it.

Vince feels around in his pockets. He hasn’t got another cent on him. “Fuck, sorry Howard,” Vince says. “I meant to treat you, but I haven’t got any more money.”

“Well, that’s just bloody brilliant,” Howard says bitterly. “I don’t have any either.”

“You spent it all?”

“Yeah.”

“What on?” Vince asks incredulously.

Howard shakes his head, “First pressing of _Bitches Brew_.”

One of the albums, Vince assumes. He huffs another laugh. Howard frowns.

Vince looks quickly skyward before he holds his ice cream toward Howard. “Here,” he says, “I know it’s no ninety-nine, but have it.”

“I don’t want it,” Howard says (but he’s lying).

“Go on, Howard,” Vince encourages. “I don’t want it that much. Give me the bags, too. That way you can dodge any more rogue kids, yeah?”

“I d—”

“Have it,” Vince insists.

Howard acquiesces. He and Vince shuffle bags and cone around until everything is correctly distributed. Howard licks the melting strawberry ice cream and Vince smiles to see him smile. 

Then he laughs again, thinking of Howard’s face when the ice cream was knocked out of his hand. “Come on,” he says, “Let’s go home.”

They walk out of the park, down city streets. People really don’t know what to make of them _now_ , particularly since Vince keeps erupting with giggles like a nutter. Every time he thinks about it, the whole thing gets a little sillier to him. The rain cloud that follows Howard around wherever he goes, almost seems impossible that so much bad luck could cling to him, seems like something ought to come along every once in a while and balance things out, but nothing ever does.

It’s always the wrong place, the wrong moment, the wrong thing, no matter what; that’s Howard’s lot. 

Vince cuts down an alley, giggling again, unable to stop himself. It was going so well, is the thing, so picturesque and lovely and…

“It’s not that funny,” Howard says around a lick of ice cream.

“Course it is,” Vince says. He looks up at Howard then dances back, lets the bags he’s carrying sway his momentum as he reenacts the fall of the ice cream, “and splat, down it goes. Only you could have something out of an advert for anti-depressants happen to you,” he says, grinning.

Howard doesn’t look amused at all. He finishes the cone with a frown on his face, which is a bit silly, too, really. Vince snickers, and Howard glares. He’s got pink foam clinging to his moustache which doesn’t really help him look properly menacing, and, yeah, the universe might be against Howard all the time, but Vince isn’t.

He reaches out, catches Howard by the arm and stops him. Howard blinks (the irritation goes out of him in an instant) (it doesn’t take much) (just a little touch). 

“Here, you’ve got...” Vince says, reaching up with his thumb. He wipes across Howard’s bristly upper lip, watches Howard’s eyes as he does. 

Cow brown, that’s what those eyes are, but they haven’t got the sweetness of bovine passivity in them. They’re crackling, dark things, shifty little cockerel’s eyes, beads of flint that can spark incandescent flames. They let Vince peep in on Howard’s soul (windows on a neat orderly chamber) (brown, beige, olive green and grey) (but fuchsia and lemon yellow live there too) (if you know where to look).

They’re doing a fucking spin-art rainbow right now. Fuck, it’s so easy. Howard wants and wants and then wants a little more, and sure it’s gone a bit Depeche Mode, but yeah; Vince can’t seem to get enough either.

It’s just pretend, all of this. It doesn’t stop Vince feeling, though, right at this moment that it isn’t, not when he’s got Howard looking at him _like that_. No one has _ever_ looked at him quite the same way before (he’s sure) (he’s not) (he wants to be, though).

He can’t help himself. He takes his thumb and sucks it into his mouth. Howard’s pupils might dilate a hair as Vince watches. The sweet strawberry cream tickles his tongue, the texture of his thumb feels rough in his mouth. He wants something smoother to sooth the feel of it away. 

Vince looks down. Howard’s mouth, undoubtedly, tastes just the same as the sweet cream, and his lips are velvet soft.

He glances left and right, confirms what he already knows. They’re alone in the alley, completely unwatched (doesn’t really matter that much if they’re not). He puts his hands on Howard’s chest (the bags slide down his arms, settle at the crooks of his elbows) he goes up on his toes and presses his lips softly against Howard’s. He slips his tongue out, gives Howard’s upper lip a slow pass (teases rather than going for the full-on snog that he wants to give him) (tastes like strawberries, cream, and gorgeous, delicious _Howard_ ) then retreats.

He opens his eyes and Howard is staring at him when he does. Vince smiles, “Just wanted to make sure I got it all.”

Howard’s gone mute, apparently.

That’s alright. Vince tilts his head, comes down off his toes and slowly turns. He saunters out of the alley (knowing without needing to look) that Howard is right behind him.

“Here, give me those,” he says catching the bags on Vince’s left.

“I’ve got it,” Vince tells him.

And now it’s Howard who insists. “No, let me,” he says as he takes the bags off Vince.

A passing girl sees and smiles like she’s watching kittens snuggling in a barrel.

Vince catches her eye, _that’s right, he’s all mine_ he thinks. Maybe it’s true. Maybe it isn’t. But she thinks it is, and that makes it easier for Vince to pretend that the truth is exactly what he wants it to be.


	3. Safe Fun (and Games)

_Fuck this._

That’s all Vince can think as Howard pushes around the little wooden sheep _recounting them_ like he doesn’t trust Vince to have done it properly himself.

You get three points for every sheep, four points per cow; whatever the fuck, it doesn’t matter. He’s pretty sure he’s done the maths right and Howard is just being a dick because it’s his natural state. Vince has lost. That’s the thing. It’s not like Vince padded his score with a couple extra points so that he could get the win. He’s _lost_ , Howard has won, no one is surprised.

Vince never stood a chance, not when he’s still not completely sure what all the little bits are for, or how the cards come into play, or, really, anything.

It’s frustrating, is what it is. He’s lost and now Howard has to count everything up like Vince can’t even get that right, which he’s pretty sure he has.

Not _positive_ , but pretty sure. 

“Can’t we call it a day with this?” Vince asks the back of Howard’s head. Howard is hunched over the coffee table, one of his fingers following Vince’s tally, his other hand picking up Vince’s pieces as he goes so that he doesn’t count them twice or something.

He completely ignores Vince.

“Howard,” Vince says (to no effect). “Howard,” he repeats. And again, and a fourth time after that.

“Quiet,” Howard says at last, “I’m summing this up.” 

As though Vince might have failed to realize what he’s doing.

“I’ve already summed it up,” Vince points out.

“Yeah, but—”

“I can do basic maths, Howard!”

Howard flashes him a look; _sure you can_. 

Vince’s eyes narrow. “Whatever. I could’ve been at the laser bowl.”

“You said you didn’t want to go,” Howard says.

“Yeah, well, that was before I found out my other option for the day was _actual torture_. Probably more effective than thumbscrews, this.”

“Right,” Howard says. He picks up three of the white sheep and holds them in his palm, makes a check next to Vince’s tally, “Sorry Leroy cancelled on you, but I did offer to take you and you said you didn’t want to wreck your hair in the rain, so you only have yourself to blame.”

“S’not true,” Vince says sulkily.

Even though it’s completely true. 

It had all seemed so promising, though. Naboo and Bollo going to Kettering for a Christening, Leroy calling at the very last minute to say his car had broken down, Howard sitting on the sofa with absolutely nothing to do… It had seemed like a golden opportunity, like he’d won the lottery.

Obviously, Vince didn’t want to stay in to play bullshit boardgames that have more rules than pomegranates have seeds. He wanted to stay in because _they’re alone in the flat_ , they could do _anything_. It's all his fault for giving Howard the choice and not just turning on the telly and finding some stupid show for them to slag off on together. 

Then, they could’ve sat next to one another on the sofa, and Vince could have decamped one of his hands onto Howard’s thigh. He could have followed the grooved corduroy like a railway line up to Howard’s crotch and (if he wasn’t already) he could have palmed him hard and Vince could have sucked him off while the Doctor took care of a werewolf or Poirot did the one on the golf course or whatever.

But no. Vince had wanted to _do something nice_ (big fucking mistake) and let Howard decide what they should do with their suddenly free afternoon, and when he’d said, ‘let’s play a game,’ Vince’s mind hadn’t immediately jumped to something that is more properly a legal proceeding than a game. 

He’d been thinking Connect 4 or Snakes and Ladders. Something that he could introduce a strip element to at some point. Can’t introduce a strip element to this. Or, well, you probably could, but why make this shit more complex than it already is? Anyway, _when_ do you put the strip element in? After five sheep, the other person has to take something off? No, it wouldn’t work. You’d have to reckon in all the different point values and…

Point is, they could have had some variety of naked sexy times (as Vince had intended) but, instead, Howard chose to flay him with little wooden pieces and heavy cardboard tiles, and now he’s got to prolong the torture by _checking Vince’s maths_. 

“This is stupid,” Vince says, his voice dipping into a whine. He can’t help it.

“I just want to be sure you’ve got it right.”

“What does it matter?”

“Well, it’s got to be accurate so that we can record it for next time.”

“Next time?” Vince asks, completely aghast. There _will not_ be a next time. There will never be a next time. Next time will only arrive with the other four horsemen of the apocalypse.

Oblivious, Howard just keeps on running his finger along Vince’s tally. “Yeah,” he says, “we’ll keep track and do ten games or something. Make it a little tournament. You could—”

“Howard, you’ve gone wrong. I’m never doing this again. It was hell. Complete hell.”

“I thought we had fun,” Howard says.

“Really?” Vince asks, “What was fun about it? The part where you spent a half-hour reading me a rule book, the part where you kept yelling at me for taking the wrong shapes out of the box, or the part where you decided that I can’t be trusted to add? Which of those bits was fun again?”

“You just don’t like losing.”

Vince scoffs, “I couldn’t care less about losing.”

Howard’s eyes widen, “Yeah. Okay.” He goes back to checking Vince’s score. “You were only five points off,” he says. “All you had to do was—”

“I don’t care what I had to do.”

“I’m only trying to give you some pointers so that—”

“I don’t want _pointers_ —”

“I’m just tying to say you were close and if you bothered to pay attention when—”

“Oh, during your four-hour dissertation on fences and cows or whatever?”

“I was trying to read you the rules, and you kept mucking about on your phone. Next time, I suggest—”

“Stop saying next time! I hated this game, and I’ll never play again.”

Howard throws his hands up, “Fine. That’s fine.” He picks up the box and starts sorting all the pieces back into their trays. You’d think he’d just toss all the pieces back into the box willy-nilly, or, at least that the sorting would have a tone of pointed irritation to it. They’ve just had a bit of a tiff, after all. But Howard is putting the pieces back with care. He’s putting them back neatly. Slowly. Like every single move he makes counts. 

It’s an anal-retentive fright fest, watching Howard sort like this.

White in the white tray, red in the red tray, little families in their own color coordinated slots… Christ. 

It _is not_ turning Vince on. Not any of this. Not the adding, or the sniping, or the fussing, or the lecturing, or the way Howard keeps turning the little wooden bits _just so_ , like they need to be in absolutely perfect order or something is going to go horrendously wrong.

He just has to get that message to his cock.

Howard turns the sheep so that they’re all facing the exact same way. His fingers spin them with dexterous care, slide over the white wood, caress the wavy edge of their carved woolen backs, and only when they are completely and perfectly aligned does he place them into their (apparently) assigned groove.

Vince looks at the wall. “Couldn’t you just toss everything in?” he asks.

“No. Everything in its place,” Howard insists (a piece plinks obediently into its tray) (the squares are lined up in military rows) (it’s as well-ordered as a baroque garden), “If you don’t put it back right, the box won’t shut. Anyway, it’s easier to set up if it’s neat.”

Vince snorts, taps the toe of his boot on the ground. He’s not _trying_ to get Howard’s attention, but he isn’t not trying to get it either. Howard, though, stays focused on his task.

“Who are you setting it up for? Has it got a solitaire version?”

“Actually it has,” Howard says.

“You don’t play _by yourself_ do you?”

Howard doesn’t say anything which Vince takes to mean that _he does_. It’s officially the saddest thing Vince can imagine. Howard in his room all alone of an evening, playing this game against himself _for fun_.

“You really need to get better hobbies,” Vince says. “This is just about the worst thing that I’ve ever done, and I once watched one of Leroy’s interpretive dance pieces about Metallica.”

“Yeah, I get it, alright? You were bored, you didn’t like the game, you don’t want to play anymore,” Howard rolls one hand in the air like he’s unwinding a long list of Vince’s complaints. “Just shut it and let me sort in peace, will you? It doesn’t go any faster with you whinging on about it.” Vince is about to protest that he isn’t _whinging_ , but Howard shakes his head, “And, by the way, for someone who didn’t care about winning, you tried awfully hard.”

“No, I didn’t.” (Not really, anyway).

“Yeah, you did. You spent three minutes trying to decide if you wanted to add another field or buy more sheep at the end. You were trying—”

“Trying to stay awake.”

“Just admit—”

“Nothing to admit. I hated it.”

“ _Because you lost_ ,” Howard says, putting the last piece back into the box. He looks back at Vince (at last), and it’s one of those times where Vince feels Howard might be looking inside him, like he’s transparent. It’s like he’s made of jam and Howard can see all the pulp and seeds suspended under his skin and he _knows_ that Vince is marmalade no matter how much he insists he’s raspberry.

Howard looks him up and down (silly little marmalade man can’t trick him). His face blooms into a foxy smirk. _I see you_.

Vince blinks. He doesn’t say anything. Nothing to say, after all.

He stands up and leans over the coffee table. He picks up Howard’s neatly sorted box, the box he has yet to put the lid on. Vince’s eyes comb over Howard’s perfectly subdivided kingdom. He lifts the box over his head. Confusion bursts in Howard’s eyes _What are you...?_ he wonders.

Not for long. 

Vince tips the box upside down.

Everything falls out (it’s raining a primary colored rainbow) (wooden tinks patter against the floor), it all scatters everywhere. Howard hops up.

“ _Vince!_ ” Howard’s got a way of saying his name sometimes (like now) that makes it sound like Vince is a naughty kitten that’s just shredded up toilet roll, like he’s going to go get the squirt bottle and give Vince a little liquid reprimand for getting mucky pawprints on the counters. His eyes dart all over the floor, frantically trying to track the thousand or so pieces that have scattered like roaches in sunlight, “What the _hell?_ ” 

“Whoops,” Vince says flatly.

“It’s going to take ages to track down those pieces!” Howard growls. He glares at Vince, “I swear if you’ve made me lose one…” he trails off. He’s staring at him. 

Oh, shit, he’s staring right _through_ him.

And Vince is staring right back.

He’s not turned on. Neither of them are turned on. No chance. He’s just gone breathless for an entirely unrelated reason. Howard is just fucking him with his eyes because... well, actually, Vince isn’t sure why he’s doing that. Might want to check and find out.

“What you going to do?” Vince purrs (bad, bad kitty).

Howard’s face sets in a frown. He looks down at the pieces on the floor that look like nothing so much as sprinkles on a birthday cake, “I’m going to,” he says (his voice half an octave lower than normal), “I’m going to,” his eyes flick to Vince’s tongue, which has somehow worked its way between Vince’s teeth. “I... sod it,” he says at last. 

He pulls Vince by the arm and yanks him forward at the exact same moment Vince takes a step toward him, so they end up colliding with the force of a car wreck, their mouths crush together, their arms tangle like steel wrapping around steel. Pieces slide around under their shoes as they shuffle their positions. The part of Vince that is thinking about later hopes that they don’t snap any, because then Howard will actually be properly angry, but that part of him is small and shuts up the second Howard’s hand tangles into the back of his hair.

Vince grabs a nice handful of Howard’s arse and pulls him in between his thighs. He leans back so that his half-hard cock meets Howard’s (they share a hug, happy as best mates meeting unexpectedly at a pub), he thrusts haplessly, animal instinct guiding his movements. Howard groans, pushing Vince backward until the back of Vince’s knees hit the edge of the sofa. Howard gives him a little shove (keep going if you please, sir) and Vince goes down with an oof.

He expects Howard to come down with him, but Howard stays up, standing over Vince like the monolith in fucking _2001_ , his cock tenting out his trousers like a sequoia. Vince’s eyes slide up from Howard’s crotch to his face and he sees it, exactly how Howard wants it. He wants to be the boss for a change, and that’s fine (as long as Vince gets it just as he wants it too).

Thing is, though, Vince always gets it just as he wants it, no matter how it goes.

He grins. He tucks his knees under himself so that his face is properly in line with Howard’s cock. He keeps his eyes on Howard’s as he goes for Howard’s zip.

“N-no,” Howard stutters. “You...”

Now this _is_ turning him on. Howard hasn’t got a problem bossing him about all day long, but throw a little sex into the mix, and he’s suddenly shy about it. Good thing Vince doesn’t actually need him to say what he wants to get the picture. He sees the way Howard’s looking at his shirt and trousers. Howard’s thinking that he wants all that to come off, he’s thinking he’d like to see Vince to make a little spectacle of himself, maybe as a bit of an apology, like. _Ruined the box, take off your togs and give me a show._

Sure. Why not?

Vince toes off his boots first and kicks them to the floor. He spreads his thighs, drags his thumbs over his drainpipes, briefly frames his prick as he continues upward. He runs his hands up his neck and through his hair, ruffling it up, before gliding his hands back down to his hips. He’s got a t-shirt and a jacket on today, a black and white, fringed leather thing, with studs and little chrome stars on the collar. He shrugs out of the jacket, lets it slump limp and lifeless behind him on the sofa. He runs his fingers around the edges of the t-shirt, around the waistband of his trousers, not really sure himself which he’s going to take off first.

He tugs his shirt up a little and Howard makes the decision for him, gives the slightest, almost imperceptible nod. Vince tugs off his shirt in one smooth, fluid motion (he’s taking it off for an audience, after all) and drops it at Howard’s feet (where it covers a demolished rainbow of game pieces).

Vince lets his arms hang suspended for a moment before he drifts them down. He crosses his arms, rests his hands on opposite shoulders and slides his hands over his warm skin. They make an achingly slow pilgrimage across his body and down, down to the promised land, down to the oasis of hair that sprouts just south of his belly button.

Vince’s fingers meet the top button on his trousers. He slips it free and undoes his fly, pulls his trousers open. Howard mewls. It’s his _you haven’t got pants on_ mewl. Not wearing pants has been an occasionally necessary evil since drainpipes came back in, but Vince has started doing it for this, too. Howard’s reaction to finding out that nothing separates Vince’s cock from the light of day (or dark of night) but a single layer of denim (or leather, or PVC, or spandex).

He pushes his trousers down, makes a show of arching his back (makes a show, too, of jutting his prick forward) before he wraps his hand around his shaft. He holds himself for a moment before he takes his other hand and sucks his fingers into his mouth, slicking them up with saliva, before he starts slipping them around back.

Howard’s eyes scuttle over him like a crab, evidently wanting to look everywhere and all at once.

Vince slides his foreskin up and down. He moans with a little more volume than the situation necessarily requires as he slides his thumb across the sticky head. “You like looking, Howard?” Vince asks breathlessly. 

Howard’s eyes flick up, meet Vince’s as guiltily as a vicar meeting a prozzie for the night. _Yeah, he likes it, alright_.

Vince spreads his thighs wider. He starts teasing his entrance. How many times has he done this? Fingered himself with nothing but his own spit, he means, but also _this_... only, never, really. The other times have all been in his own head. He laughs at the serendipity as he slips the tip of his first finger inside himself, “I used to…” he says, then stops, checks himself before he says what he was going to. _I used to wank, thinking of you. I used to say your name when I was alone in the dark and imagine you were watching, just like this_.

He might not say it out loud, but now he’s thinking it, and Howard is watching him with the sort of attention Labrador retrievers give tennis balls. It’s as good as Vince ever imagined, better, even, Howard’s attention all over him. Tallies and boxes and little missing pieces don’t mean shit, not anymore. Now that Vince has him, Howard is all fucking his.

The theater is turning real. The staging that (however carefully painted) was flat and dull, is turning photorealistic, popping out in all three dimensions. Vince groans against the stretch of his finger, against the heat in Howard's eyes.

“What did you used to do?” Howard asks.

Vince laughs, because Howard _would_ ask him that, just when Vince has decided he doesn’t want to say. He wonders if he’s really going to be able to say it just now, when he’s two knuckles deep in himself, with Howard staring right at him. Vince feels so exposed (literally, yeah, but also in a totally figurative sense) (like he’s been cut open and had all his Fruit Salad put under a microscope) that he wants to squirm away from it. Squeamish, that’s how he’s come over.

He regrets his inability to shut his stupid gob when he’s got a hard-on. Everything just gushes out of him like a fucking fountain. He’s lucky, really, that he hasn’t said _something else_ yet during sex. Fuck, he’s been close a few times, but he’s got lucky and caught those words back just at the last moment each time, but this, this, of fucking course, he started blurting and he can’t think of something else to say, so...

“I used to pretend I was doing this for you,” he gasps at last. “Sometimes,” he hedges. “Not a lot. You know, just... once or twice, or whatever.”

“For... me?” Howard asks (like he’s had the entire lot of his braincells destroyed in a nuclear holocaust), “Why?”

“Fuck, come on, Howard,” Vince says. Howard looks back at him like he _honest to fucking Christ_ can’t figure it out.

Vince rolls his eyes (even though he’s got his cock hard as steel in his fist, and his finger getting close to its final destination up his arse, and it’s hard to feel anything other than _fuck me_ ), he sighs before he says, “I wanted you to want to look, alright?”

Howard processes this for a minute. He glances Vince up and down, “I do,” he says, softly. “I did. I did and I do.”

“Christ,” Vince whines, “Did you..." his finger finds his prostate and he can't say _anything_ for a moment. He closes his eyes, arches his back in a way that is as much for show as it is because he needs to. Howard is goggling at him when he opens his eyes again, "Oh, fuck, did you wank? Over me?”

 _Say yes, say yes, say yes, say yes_...

Howard doesn’t say yes, but he licks his lips and nods. “What did I...?” Howard starts. He freezes mid-sentence like the black frost has got to him; he wants to know, though; he wants Vince to tell him what he used to do _in Vince’s head_.

Oh, shit, yeah.

Okay. Obviously, isn’t going to tell him what he _actually_ used to do. This a green light to make up anything that he wants and he’s not about to waste it on the truth.

“You used to,” Vince says, fighting to keep his eyes open, because his imagination always works a little better when they’re closed, “you used to catch me at it. At having a wank. You’d get all shirty about it, throw a real snit, you know? You’d say...” Vince finds his prostate again and groans against the pleasure of it, “you’d ask, what’re you doing, be all angry, but then I’d see that you had a big, hard stiffy for me, just like you do right now, and I’d... I’d just keep going until you’d shut up and then you’d... oh, fuck, you’d... you’d just...” Vince wants to make something up. He’d been planning to make something up. Should be easy. 

Howard could have fucked him, Howard could have sucked him off. Shit, he could have at least given him a handy, but he never did. Vince laughs again, the whole thing suddenly hilarious. He’s going to tell Howard the truth, he realizes. “All it took was... all you ever had to do was kiss me. That was as much as I could take. Because I never thought...” _that it could really happen_.

Howard doesn’t look like he knows what to do with this either. But, then again, maybe he does. He reaches out, his fingers brush Vince’s hair back, his thumb caresses over Vince’s cheekbone and he leans over him...

Vince's brain is rupturing, bleeding out a lifetime of wanks, feeding them back to him. This is all it used to take, Howard's mouth, his stupid moustache, his disdainful face all disapproving and so fucking _hot_.

“Howard,” Vince warns, unsure how he’s got so close, but Howard doesn’t heed him.

“Don’t,” he says, like Vince’s cock is just a tap that he can turn off, before he kisses him.

Vince moans into the kiss. He stops touching his cock, stops fingering himself (he has to), “Touch me, Howard, touch me, please.”

Howard crouches with his knees resting on the edge of the sofa, his hands close on Vince’s waist. Vince unbuttons Howard's atrocious shirt, pulls his vest over his head, starts getting Howard’s trousers off, “I wanted this,” Vince huffs (now he’s started, he can’t stop), “I wanted this so much.” He shoves down Howard’s pants, “I want you so much. I—” _love you_.

“Shhh,” Howard says (saving him at the last moment), “fuck’s sake, I can’t—”

“You can,” Vince says, telling Howard like Howard just told him. He starts turning around, so that his arse is in Howard’s reach, and Howard swears.

“Lube,” he pants.

Vince reaches down into the cushions and pulls out a tube and hands it to Howard.

“Where did this—?”

“When you were getting out your torture device, I nipped into my room and grabbed it. You know, in case.”

“Fucking lube squirrel,” Howard accuses. He sucks just below and behind Vince's ear, "Fucking genius," he mumbles, his moustache tickling at Vince’s neck, his praise tickling somewhere far deeper.

Vince leans back so that his shoulder blades are resting on Howard’s chest, he turns his head and takes Howard’s mouth again and they kiss, half-wild and sloppy, as Howard slides his finger between Vince’s cheeks. Vince smiles into the slight burn that dissipates as he relaxes. Howard pushes into him and Vince reaches back for Howard’s cock, their arms bumping into one another clumsily as Vince does his best to jerk Howard off while he’s fingering him.

The second Howard finds his prostate, Vince lets him know. He hisses a breath through his teeth, “Yeah, Howard, like that, just like _that_.” He groans, “I used to watch you... oh, fuck, when you were... trancing like an idiot... you never... you didn’t notice... oh, I used to... I used to pretend that I got you to look like that... like you were lost, like you weren’t... that it was me, and my mouth, my hands, whatever you wanted that—”

Howard swears. He shoves Vince forward and then kneels up behind him on the sofa. There’s barely enough room for both of them, like this. Vince’s prick is pressed flush with the back of the sofa and then Howard pushes into him. His cock feels so massive. Like a whale, like fucking Moby Dick, and Vince has been hunting the open seas for it just as long as that demented captain, dreaming, obsessing over it like it’s murdered his family, or whatever the fuck, and now, now, he’s got it and it’s the _fucking tits_.

“Jesus, _Vince_ ,” Howard moans, thrusting into him. It doesn’t take long. The sparks kindle into flame and the flame races over him (he’s an effigy of Guy Fawkes covered in petrol) (a messy pile of newsprint, matchsticks, kerosene, and elation), and Vince is lost to bliss. He lets Howard fuck him boneless, his voice high and nonsensical, telling Howard a million things that he’s thought or wanted until Howard comes too, crying out Vince’s name one last time, the end of a rock song. _Goodnight, Detroit!_

Howard pulls out of him and flops onto the sofa. He catches Vince’s hand and tugs him down on top on him.

They’re both still breathing hard as Vince snuggles into the crook of Howard’s neck. 

Howard kisses his temple, “Moby Dick? Really?”

Vince laughs, “Shut up. I can’t be held responsible for what comes out of my mouth when you’re doing that.”

“Mmm,” he says quietly. He shifts underneath him, “You’ve made a mess out of the sofa.”

“Yeah, sorry. Can’t really be held responsible for that, either, though.”

“Shirker.” Howard’s fingers rub at Vince’s scalp in a way that he knows will fuck his hair up, but (right now) Vince doesn’t care. It feels nice, Howard’s short fingernails and calloused fingertips, massaging at his roots. Anyway, it’s Howard’s hair. It’s for him, that is. If he wants to fuck it up, he’s allowed.

Vince closes his eyes, “Howard,” he says, drunk on sex, half ready to fall asleep, half ready to float away like an untethered balloon, half ready to say _it_...

“Shit,” Howard says, sitting up a little.

“What?” Vince asks. His eyes snap open. He looks back to where Howard is looking, at the clock and... oh, right. Naboo and Bollo are due back any fucking minute now. How long was that game, anyway?

“Shit,” Vince agrees. He hops up, “Okay, fuck, um, you want to do the sofa or the game?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Howard asks scooping his pants off the floor and using them to wipe his cock with, “Me, cleaning up your spunk while you looked on...”

“I wouldn’t be _looking on_ , you pervert, I’d be cleaning up the fucking game—”

“And not putting anything back right,” Howard retorts.

Vince rolls his eyes and slips his t-shirt back on, “If you could stop being a nutjob for ten seconds,” he begins, and whatever moment had been near sneaks past them until it passes out of sight.


	4. A Tasty Soup

Howard shuffles down the stairs to the shop, his cardigan buttoned tight. Vince has beaten him downstairs. Howard hears him before he sees him, knows that, already, he’s moving things from one end of the shop to the other. 

Howard stealthily creeps down another few stairs, then watches Vince for a moment as he fusses like a bower bird. He nudges a dreamcatcher slightly to the left, adjusts the record rack two microns to the right, one of the clocks catches his eye and he switches it out with another. There isn't any reason behind it. The shop is set up just as it was the day before, and, yesterday, the shop had been set up right. Today, though, it's wrong.

It’s like some astrological pattern, some divine schematic, some semi-transparent overlay atop reality only Vince can see guides him toward perfect stock arrangement. He pursues his goal like a druid putting up Stonehenge, with the same gravity that should only come from making something meant to last for a thousand years, not under twenty-four hours.

To Howard, it’s a lot of fuss for nothing. The till will still be unbalanced, the shutters will still be down. Anything that has to do with keys or actual _work_ is under Howard’s purview. Normally, it doesn’t bother him especially. It’s just the dynamic. Howard’s got sense, Vince has got... sensibility. Only neither of them is going to run off in a rainstorm, get the lurgy, and end up marrying a man twice their age.

The step he’s standing on creaks, betrays him, and Vince turns toward him with a half-formed taunt on his lips, clearly ready to capitalize on Howard being the one who is late for a change, but then a few things happen all at once.

Vince looks at him properly, and instantly, his grin falls, his expression changes, turns pensive and considerate, and fucking _perceptive_ , and Howard prepares a denial, queues it up to the tip of his tongue, gets it ready to launch, but then he hacks a cough that suggests maybe _one_ of them might already have the lurgy.

He doesn’t, is the thing.

Howard steps off the bottom stair and hauls himself toward the counter.

Vince peers at him through his fringe. He brushes it out of the way, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Howard answers. Wheezes, is perhaps the technical term for it. 

Vince eyes him dubiously, his plainly worn skepticism only intensifying the longer they look at each other.

It should look awkward all that… face, aimed in Howard’s direction. The high cheekbones and massive eyes, the witchy nose and pointy chin; it’s all too much. It should go out of whack somewhere, it shouldn’t work, but it does. Every feature shouts which somehow mixes everything down to the exact right volume.

It hits Howard like this every once in a while, just how beautiful Vince is.

He hasn’t exactly gone conservative with the outfit today either. He’s got a cream-colored flowy jacket on over some sort of tube top and white drainpipes. When he moves, his hipbones peek out from the edge of their low rise. Howard should feel something about that outfit. He knows that it would normally provoke a reaction in him. A _could you help me look for something in the back?_ sort of reaction, but he hasn’t got it in him.

Which, perhaps, is doing nothing to allay Vince’s suspicions.

Howard looks away, shivering a little. He hunches his shoulders against a non-existent breeze and continues avoiding Vince’s eye as he starts trying to open the till.

“No, something is wrong with you,” Vince says, coming around the counter. He raises his hand to touch Howard’s forehead.

“Don’t touch me,” Howard snaps. The first time in a long time that he’s said those words. He doesn’t actually mean it, not like he used to, anyway. It’s just that, if Vince touches him, he’s going to be able to tell that Howard might be running a shade hot.

He is running a shade hot. Perfectly normal, though, to crack a temp of 39 every once in a while, so long as you don’t make it a habit, and, sure, he’s got a headache, and maybe his nose is running, and, okay, his throat is sore, but Howard is tough, he’s resilient, he doesn’t let things like high fevers, chills, and excessive mucus slow him down. No sir.

He just doesn’t need the concern, is all. He doesn’t need the comments, either. He’s not in the mood to be pestered. He just wants to be left alone, to take a nice long nap, and to have his head stop feeling like it’s been stuffed with twenty pounds of spray insulation.

In spite of a certain amount of evidence to the contrary, _Moons do not get sick._

No, they don’t, and Howard is a Moon through and through, so, he’s not sick. He’s fine. He’s great, actually. He’s... a bit of a dick, he realizes, as Vince withdraws his hand.

It falls at his side like a rejected puppy.

Howard shuffles uneasily, “Sorry,” he says. “I’m just...” _not feeling well_ , “tired.”

Vince huffs a laugh, “Tired? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like algae scraped off a sloth’s back and left to rot in the sun for a few weeks. You sound like you’ve got wasps in your throat. Angry ones.”

“I’m fine,” Howard insists, his voice cracking traitorously. He pulls a tissue out of his pocket and blows his nose then resumes trying to get the till open. He presses the button to release the drawer again. The bloody thing is stuck. The latch won’t come undone. The whole fucking thing needs oiling.

Howard gives the side of it a slap, “Fucking till,” he says through clenched teeth.

Vince sighs. “It’s already open.”

“What?”

Vince reaches past Howard and pulls the bottom of the drawer, “See? Already open.”

“Oh,” Howard says.

“Yeah,” Vince says. He chews at the corner of his lip. “But you’re fine, right?”

Howard looks down at the neatly arranged rows of cash.

There is a certain level of denial where you can be aware that you’re in denial, but still unable to fully admit that the thing you’re denying (and aware that you’re denying) is actually happening. Howard is living there right now.

So maybe he’s a little bit off his game, not his usually sprightly self, but, as stated previously, Moons do not get sick. His dad made that perfectly clear back in the days when Howard used to think that he did get sick, just like everyone else. They might fall _a little under the weather_ , but never so much as to warrant any type of fuss.

Vince looks like he wants to fuss. His irritation with Howard is painted on and peeling back at the corners. Concern is peeking through. His eyes, for one, are all big and soppy and gentle, and the longer Howard looks at him, the more his whole person seems as soft as a pillow; the part of Howard that isn’t in denial wants to sink into him, to put his head on Vince’s narrow shoulder and trust him to do what’s best.

He hasn’t got any idea what that would be like.

Howard’s mum was only a Moon by marriage. Instead of relying on a highly adapted immune system, a tough as leather attitude, and extraordinary powers of self-delusion, she’s always relied on fanatical cleanliness to get her through flu season. If any disease ever enters the house, she bleaches it straight out of existence ten minutes later. She’s got _protocols_.

Howard used to have to go through a sterilization process when he came home from school. Felt a bit like entering a clean room at a lab. Shoes off, jacket and uniform off, change into house clothes, put everything in the laundry, wash hands, present for inspection... Vince used to give her heart palpitations when he’d come over, barely domesticated as he was.

“Doesn’t he have anything else to wear?” his mother used to ask, eyeing Vince’s ratty uniform with distaste.

Howard used to lie. He never used Vince’s real excuses. _A hermit crab lost his shell this morning and I had to give him my clothes on loan so that he wouldn’t get eaten up by crows. Chahala, the lynx, took a shine to my trousers and weed all over them. I let her have them, I can’t wear them now._ His mum wouldn’t have understood. Howard usually stuck with, _Oh, he’s forgotten them_. Probably why, even to this day, his mum thinks Vince is thicker than concrete.

“How’s the gifted child?” she still asks every once in a while.

Point is, whenever Howard was _under the weather_ , his mum was at the other end of the house, sheltering from the hurricane in a facemask and hazmat suit.

Howard isn’t used to coddling, or pity. _Just tough it out_ , that’s what his father used to say, _no need to have a parade over it, no need to be one of these slackers taking days off_ ; no sir. Not for Moons, sick leave. Just a box of tissues and a couple packets of instant soup and a kick in the arse. That’s all you really need.

Vince stares at him through all of these considerations until Howard straightens himself up and starts counting the cash for the day. He hovers at Howard’s elbow for a moment before he finally gives up. Howard doesn’t actually see the eyeroll that accompanies Vince’s heavy sigh, but he doesn’t need to see it to know that it’s happened. Vince leaves Howard alone and goes back to fiddling with the stock.

Good.

Yeah, good.

Howard is about half-way through counting his euros when, suddenly, the chill in the air slams into reverse and he’s back in the Desert of Nightmares. It feels like an angry sun is burning his face into a jacket potato, like he’d be happy to have a coyote piss on him to cool him down. Howard takes off his cardigan and plucks at his rollneck. He tries to hang the cardigan on the stool but it slips off.

He can’t quite make himself pick it up. He just groans at it, heaped in a dark pile at his feet, unable to summon the energy to fetch it back from so far away.

“Don’t you think you ought to go back to bed?” Vince asks. Howard jumps, surprised by Vince’s nearness. If Vince sees, he ignores it. He picks up Howard’s cardigan and rolls it into a ball before he puts it on the shelf behind them.

“No,” Howard says. He’s about to remind Vince that he’s fine, but an avalanche of snot chooses that moment to shake free and slide down the back of his throat, so all he does is make a gargle that sounds like wet newspaper extruded through a piece of brass tubing, which is an oddly specific thing for it to sound like, but if the shoe fits...

Howard looks up at Vince through watery eyes while he clears his throat. “Nothing wrong with me,” he rasps.

“You’re unbelievable,” Vince says. “You look like you’re dying.”

“That’s an illusion,” Howard says, trying to force his tortured vocal cords into a semblance of their normal baritone. He fails miserably, of course, but he does make the effort. “This is all merely the evolutionary trickery of the famed Moon constitution. My body will purge the ill-humors and I’ll be right as rain in a couple of hours, yes sir,” he says, ending with a cough that somewhat belies his point.

“Howard, this isn’t nineteen-fifty-fucking-two. Ill humors? What the fuck are you talking about? Anyway, how is this,” Vince asks, gesturing toward the pile of tissues that has begun to accumulate next to the till, “an evolutionary trick?”

“You see me looking ill, suffering apparent symptoms of illness, and you think, _he’s no different to me, he’s just the same_ , but all the while my immune system is dekekking the bollocks out of whatever invader has foolishly decided to tangle with it. It’s putting the moves on those little viruses in there. If you knew how little it’s all affecting me, you’d cut my head off and drink my blood to get a little of the old mojo for yourself.”

Or, actually, he wants to say all that, but since every word he drags out of his throat is pure agony, all he manages to get out is, “Camouflage. Looks worse than it is.”

“Yeah? Well, your camouflage is going to scare people off. No one will want to come in here because of you. You look like you’re going to give people rapid onset rickets.”

Howard tsks, “Rickets is caused by a nutritional deficiency—"

“Whatever. You’ll put people off.”

Howard inhales to issue a more violent defense, but the intake of breath only prompts another coughing jag. By the time Howard has recovered, Vince is shaking his head. “Shan’t,” Howard chokes out.

Vince’s eyes widen. “Fuck’s sake,” he says under his breath. He walks over to the clothing rack and starts moving rainbows with his hands.

 _They’re shirts, Howard_ , some imminently sensible part of his brain informs him. Of course they are. Howard is not having a fevered hallucination; he’s not. He’s just... fucked up and drank out of one of Naboo’s cups this morning. Or something. In any case, he knows that the shirts aren’t melting down and pooling around Vince’s feet like thick lakes of enamel.

Shirts don’t melt like Calippos, not the same at all, shirts and Calippos. Can’t eat shirts for one, can’t wear Calippos for two. For three… what the hell is he counting for anyway? Christ, Howard wants a Calippo. Cool and sweet and fruity… Orange Calippos, the highest Calippos, the best of all Calippos, the king Calippo. Calippo hippo, icy, dicey slippo... _Shut up about Calippos!_ You shut up! _No, you—_

“Shhhhhhhhhh,” Howard hisses at himself. He realizes that he’s made that last noise out loud. He tries to pass it off as clearing his throat.

It doesn’t matter, Vince is still staring at him. “This is lower sixth form all over again,” he says, and everything starts looking alright.

Mostly.

The shop just has a case of the wibblies. It’s sort of tap dancing about, like pennies on a bass amp that’s been turned all the way up, but nothing’s melting that’s not supposed to be.

Howard pointedly ignores any abnormalities, “Yeah, well, I didn’t miss a single day of school, did I?” he manages to say. “Kept my perfect attendance record intact.”

“And gave half the class the black lung or whatever. You were ill for a month.”

“No, I was fine for a month, with illusory symptoms of illness.”

Vince mumbles something that Howard can’t quite make out. He sounds a bit like the mum from Charlie Brown, like a trombone with a muffler on. Howard giggles; the shop vibrates more intensely. Howard might be living inside a bass amp now. He’s not worried about it, about furniture bucking about like wild horses, or the six inches of floor he can see beneath Vince’s boots. It’s... okay. Actually, sort of makes sense, Vince being a little off the ground.

How is it Howard’s never noticed it before? How is it no one else notices either? Maybe people do notice, they just can’t say. If you put it into words, maybe the magic stops working. Maybe that’s why everyone always finds Vince so fascinating. He’s just got a few inches of extra space under him that makes him slightly untouchable. _Unless he wants to be touched_.

Vince takes a step and Howard is alarmed by the way his boots suddenly strike the floor and then pop back up again.

“Careful!” Howard yelps.

Vince looks at him, “Of what?”

“Your... your...” Howard makes an indistinct hovering gesture. “How long can you do that for?”

Vince looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “What?”

“Float,” Howard says, unable to help himself. He feels a burning at the back of his nose and a sneeze surprises him. About an ounce of snot splatters against the shop counter. “Eegh,” he says looking at it.

Vince has both his hands on his hips when Howard looks up at him again.

“Float?” he asks. “Howard? Go to bed.”

Howard mops the counter with a tissue, “I’m fine.”

“You’re _not_. People don’t float,” Vince says in plain controversion of obvious fact. “Not unless they’re yogis or snake charmers or whatever.”

“Or you,” Howard whispers with veneration. Vince looks at Howard like he’s lost his mind, but Howard hasn’t lost his mind, not at all. “Proper magic, you are. You move rainbows with your hands, you have music all over your face, and you float above the ground like you’re standing on clingfilm. Descended from fairies. That’s what you are.”

Belatedly, Howard realizes that he’s laid it on a bit thick. Vince, anyway, doesn’t look happy that Howard has said what he just has.

Howard is meant to keep a lid on thoughts like that, not fucking _say_ them aloud, right where Vince can hear him. If he’s got to say them, things like that are best saved for alone times, when all Howard’s got is some lotion and a warm flannel and his imagination. Then, if he has to, he can worship (verbally) Vince’s creamy skin, the biro ink explosion of his hair, his eyes that sparkle like glitter spilled on gritty pavements. Doesn’t do to tell him what a beautiful, creamy, inky, sparkly, rose-titted, glorious goddess Howard really thinks he is when Vince is _listening._

Obviously not. It’s plain from Vince’s expression that Howard is annoying him.

“Okay,” Vince says, “Yeah, go upstairs. Get in bed and fucking stay there.”

The shop stops wobbling. Vince is back on the ground. Howard’s face feels clammy and realizes that he’s shivering, he’s gone so cold. He’s willing to concede at this point that he may not be completely well. It doesn’t matter, though. “I’m fine,” Howard insists.

“You’re not fine, Howard. You’re sick. Or you’re going mad. Take your pick, but either way? You should go back to bed.”

“I don’t want to.”

Vince rolls his eyes, “Why not? Look at you,” he says, looking over Howard. Howard wonders what he sees, what it is that makes Vince’s eyes go so… kind. “Christ, you can’t possibly want to be standing down here all day,” he says, gently.

“I’ve never had a sick day,” Howard whines. “Moons don’t take sick days. I’m not about to take one now.”

Vince’s eyes narrow. He chews at his lip, he looks faraway. There is an almost audible sound of gears turning as Vince’s brain works something out. At last, he smiles. “Alright,” he says with a nod, “I’ll be right back.” He goes up the stairs.

Howard sags limply against the counter as soon as he’s gone. He unrolls the cardigan and wraps himself in it and wishes he had a second one. It’s worse than the fucking tundra in the shop, colder and crueler, and dimmer than an arctic night. Someone approaches the door, but they see Howard draped over the counter like he’s had half his bones out and seem to think better of entering.

Howard suddenly wants a cry. He’s wretchedly sorry for himself. It’s just not fair is all. Vince leaving him down here like this, so that people gawp at him like he’s a fucking zebra with eight legs and then turn around on their heel. He’s not a sideshow. He’s just a man. A normal man who isn’t even that ill. He’s fine.

“Nob,” says the piano, shaking its head at him.

 _Which part is the head?_ he wonders in alarm before Vince comes back down the stairs.

Thank Christ.

A tiny purple man follows in his wake, his face dour and flat. It takes Howard a moment to realize that he’s looking at Naboo.

The shaman frowns at him. He raises his eyebrow.

“See?” Vince says.

Naboo might see. “What you doing, ballbag?” he asks.

“Working,” Howard moans.

“Well, it’s your day off.”

“Day...?”

“Yeah. You’re not scheduled today.”

Howard looks to Vince who seems to have something found something suddenly fascinating down the hall.

“Oh,” he says, trying to add up the new, fake information he’s been given. Even in his fevered state, Howard knows it’s made up. There is no schedule, and if there were one, his name would be on it every single day. Still, it does mean something, that, doesn’t it? He’s happy to have heard it for... a reason.

“So, you can go to bed,” Vince says, “and still not have a sick day, yeah?”

“Oh,” Howard repeats.

“Yeah,” Naboo agrees. He looks up at Vince, “Don’t let him touch anything upstairs, alright? I’m not catching that,” he says, waving a hand at Howard like he’s a toxic waste dump. Naboo walks back up the stairs, “And disinfect anything he’s touched down here, too, yeah?”

“Sure. Cheers, Naboo,” Vince says.

Howard’s lip trembles. His eyes get hot and start overflowing.

“Jesus,” Vince says as soon as he looks at him.

“Why’s he got to be so _mean?_ ” Howard asks, barely suppressing a sob.

Vince is around the back of the counter and patting Howard’s back in a flash. He slips Howard’s arm over his shoulder like he’s a wounded soldier, a sort of half-hug, half supportive crutch, as he strokes down Howard’s side. “Yeah, he’s a proper dickhead.”

“Don’t have to talk to me like... like...”

Vince brushes back some of Howard’s hair, his fingers cool and soothing, “No, alright. It’s alright, Howard,” he says, leading him to the stairs, “You’re going to be alright. You’re tired, aren’t you?”

Howard nods.

“Come on, then, you mess. Let’s get you to bed.”

“The shop,” Howard croaks.

“I can manage. Don’t worry about the shop. Just worry about having a nice sleepie.”

Vince takes him upstairs, nattering the whole while about him being right as rain soon. He sits Howard down on his bed and then gets him a pair of pajamas from his dresser. “Here, put those on and I’ll get you something nice to drink, yeah?”

“Don’t want a drink,” Howard says petulantly.

Vince seems amused, “Well, what do you want?”

“Calippo.”

“You want an ice lolly?” Vince asks him, apparently dumbfounded.

“Orange Calippo,” Howard clarifies. “Please.”

Vince smirks and shakes his head, “Alright. I’ll go get you some things. Try to have a kip, yeah?”

Howard nods. Vince smiles at him and then he walks out the door.

_“Here, Howard. I’ve set up your room for you, you have the hot plate, and the kettle, and I’ve got you your soup packets, so, really, there won’t be any need for you to come downstairs. That’ll be nice, won’t it? Like a holiday, up here. Almost like you’re camping.”_

“M’not sick, mum. I’m fine.”

His mother gives him a pitying look, then she shuts the door behind her and he’s alone.

Howard’s head swims. He looks down at the pajamas that Vince has given him. Vince, not his mum. Howard shakes his head. He changes and gets into bed, tired enough to sleep but too uncomfortable to do anything better than close his eyes and toss and turn.

It seems an age before Vince comes back, just long enough for Howard to think that he never will, but then Howard’s door opens and Vince is there with a pair of plastic bags.

Howard brightens instantly (inasmuch as he possibly can).

Vince smiles at him, “Did you sleep at all?” he asks, as he starts unpacking his haul.

Howard shakes his head as Vince plunks down a box of tissues onto Howard’s nightstand, tissues that, according to the box, have lotion included. He’s also brought a little blue tub of some menthol scented balm that Vince tells him he should put on his chest, lemon and honey cough drops, and a fizzy drink, “In case you changed your mind. Might feel nice on your throat.”

Howard is slightly surprised by all the things Vince has brought him. He doesn’t, however, see his Calippo anywhere. He’s about to bring it up when he notices Vince shifting some sort of box around in the bag.

Howard’s eyes whittle themselves down, “What are you doing?”

“Oh, um, vitamins. I got you some vitamins, too,” Vince says, producing a pair of little bluish pills. That are not vitamins. Howard’s sick, not four years old. He knows Vince has brought him Fervex or Actifed or similar. Howard doesn’t take medicine, he’s doesn’t need it, and anyway, he’s not about to take some ridiculous snake oil the efficacy of which, his father has assured him, is non-existent, but then, Vince adds, “Oh, and this.”

He produces the Calippo like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Howard reaches for it and Vince pulls it back, “Vitamins first,” he says.

Howard shoots him a look, _you’re seriously going to try and bribe me with an ice lolly?_

 _Yep,_ Vince’s blank smile answers back.

Howard scowls, but he holds out his hand for the ‘vitamins’ in any case. Vince hands them over and watches Howard swallow them down, “Good job, Howard.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just give me my Calippo, okay?” Howard snipes.

Vince laughs.

The orange, fruity ice manages to penetrate through the embargo his tongue has presently placed on tasting anything. The coolness soothes his throat, and, since he’s feeling hot again, it actually feels good going down, too.

When Howard is finished, Vince takes the empty sleeve, “Alright, then,” he says, “I should probably get down to the shop.”

“Yeah,” Howard agrees, but he doesn’t really want Vince to go.

Vince shifts in place. He folds the hollow Calippo sleeve in half and sticks it in the empty shopping bag. He sits down next to Howard on his bed, then runs his fingers through Howard’s hair.

“Did I ever tell you about Kintala, the lemur?” Vince asks softly. His fingers migrate to Howard’s temples. He rubs a gentle circle.

“No,” Howard says, even though the answer is yes. 

“Kintala came from Madagascar. He was doing a term abroad in the forest, trying to learn mycology from the leaf-cutter ants,” Vince begins, “problem was, though, Kintala didn’t speak a word of insect. He looked a right tit, trying to talk mammal to the ants, and he was a bit of a prick, too. Got all shirty when they couldn’t understand him, even though it was his fault for not speaking their language. He stomped a whole bunch of them down. The ants were furious.”

Howard doesn’t even make it through to the place where Vince usually lets him dangle before he’s asleep.

When he wakes again, it’s dark. The clock next to him tells him it’s eight. He assumes at night.

Nothing is vibrating or floating or melting, so, already, he feels worlds better.

He’s starving. There isn’t going to be a bite of proper food in the flat. Howard was supposed to do their shop today, and if he hasn’t, probably no one else has, or, even worse, Naboo has sent Bollo and it’ll be banana flavored everything all week.

He lies in bed for a long while, trying to decide if he’s got the energy to actually get up and try to get himself something to eat, when there’s a knock on his door.

It’s just three quiet taps that probably wouldn’t wake him if he were asleep, but he isn’t. “Come in,” he rasps through a curtain of phlegm.

It’s Vince. He’s got a bowl of something in his hands. It’s steaming, but of course, Howard can’t smell it, hasn’t got any idea if it’s any good or not. If Vince made it himself, it almost definitely _won’t_ be, but Howard is so grateful to have something to eat, that he doesn’t care what it tastes like.

“Brought you something,” Vince says. He puts the bowl down on Howard’s nightstand, switches on the lamp and then rearranges Howard’s pillows so that he’s got something to sit up against.

“Thanks,” Howard says. “What is it?”

“Pho, from down the street. Thought you might like it.” He hands Howard the soup, and, quick enough that it’s clear to both of them that Vince is nervous doing it, he lays his hand over Howard’s forehead and then withdraws it. “You feel better,” Vince states, meaning, Howard supposes, not as feverish.

Howard remembers afresh snapping at him down in the shop. A wave of guilt washes over him. “I... thanks...” Howard says again, feeling stupid.

“I brought you some more... stuff. Um, to take,” Vince says. He hands Howard two more of the pills and a glass of water, “You’re not supposed to take them on an empty stomach, so...”

Howard isn’t sure he believes the medicine has actually helped him, but nothing abnormal is happening, which seems positive. Could just be his immune system finally kicking into gear, or it could be, perhaps, that the pills actually helped.

He does know, though, that he's been a twat, and it's clear that Vince wants him to take the pills. Vince, who hovers over him like he’s suddenly discovered Howard is made of glass, like he wants to swaddle him up to keep him from shattering, in spite of aforementioned twatishness.

Howard takes the pills and swallows them with a sip of water. 

Vince smiles in something like relief.

Howard doesn’t know what to do with all this. With the attention, the... well, it feels an awful lot like plain affection, this. And Vince doesn’t seem worried that he’s going to come down with what Howard’s got, seems like, if he’s thinking about it at all, he’s decided that the risk is worth it. What’s Howard supposed to do with _that_? He watches the surface of his soup and doesn’t say anything.

“Don’t just stare at it until it gets cold,” Vince says preempting the half-formed idea that Howard can’t quite finalize, the conclusion that lays just outside his grasp. “Eat it, you tit.”

Howard huffs a laugh that turns into a cough.

“You’re off the schedule tomorrow, too,” Vince tells him as Howard takes a sip of soup.

“Vince—”

“Until next week, actually. Naboo really fucked it, put you on every day starting next Tuesday, so... you can have a shout at him later, if you want. I’ve already had mine.”

 _I love you,_ Howard wants to say, his thoughts distilling into clear, obvious words; words that he realizes he means with such intensity, that they steal themselves off his tongue. _Not again,_ he warns himself. He slurps a spoonful of pho and swallows. The words slide down into his stomach with the soup. “Till is going to be a mess,” he says instead.

Vince smiles, “It already is. Made a sale after you went upstairs to some bloke in square neon glasses and flares wide enough to parachute in, you should have seen his hair,” he enthuses.

And Howard listens, and eats his soup, and watches Vince float above him just like he always does.


	5. Boxing Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a direct sequel to Boosh de Noel, so I refer (briefly) to things that happen in that fic. If you haven't read it, it won't really ruin anything for you, you just might be wondering what the hell I'm talking about for a sentence or two.

Vince’s cock is such a greedy thing. That’s his first thought as he wakes from his sleep with his prick aching between his thighs. It’s apparently not satisfied with the three times in the past thirty-six or so hours that it’s fucked, been sucked, petted, and licked. It wants _another go round_.

Vince laughs a little before he realizes that it might be asking for a friend. Howard’s cock is hard too, resting at the cleft of Vince’s arse like an affectionate dog, pressed tight against his naked skin.

Howard is asleep. Vince should be asleep too. They’re both snuggled up warm in Vince’s bed, the streets outside as quiet as they ever get, dark and still, and maybe not even there at all. It could be the whole world is in Vince’s room. Him, Howard, a bed… doesn’t sound like an inadequate universe to be honest. 

He can’t help grinding back on Howard’s cock just a little. He feels a little plunge down underneath his belly, a sudden drop, a little thrill. _Have a little fun_ his cock tempts. 

Even as he catalogs all of the perfectly decent reasons to close his eyes and go straight back to sleep (he’s exhausted from fighting monsters, from riding in the car for hours, from charming every Moon from here to Leeds), he starts compiling excuses for why he shouldn’t. 

It does feel an age since Howard has buggered him. They’re still alone in the flat. They’re both already hard. They’re lying down on a soft, flat surface. Vince has got lube somewhere near at hand. The reasons are popping up like daisies in June.

He wonders if he can get himself ready without waking Howard. He _thinks_ he can. Then... it’d only be a minute or two. Howard waking out of sleep, fumbling only to discover that Vince has taken care of it... He could slide into Vince immediately, his big body lethargic with sleep, a nice, easy, sedate fuck, a little tension reliver, a little shot of sex valium to help them both sleep deeper afterward… 

Sounds nice, put like that. Sounds well sensible, too. Right clever. Nothing like a nice orgasm to put you right out. Howard’s stiffy is bound to wake him at some point. Vince’s has done. So… might as well make the thing quick, right? Then, they’ll be nice and drowsy again, off their tits on endorphins or whatever. Anyway, Vince certainly can’t sleep with that thing poking him like it is. Feels like the handle of a tennis racquet between his arse cheeks. Well uncomfortable.

He’s picked his bouquet of reasons and it’s a compelling arrangement, so… alright.

He wriggles a little bit of distance between himself and Howard, gentle as he can, to keep him sleeping. Howard’s breath hitches, he snorts, and Vince falls still for a moment. Once he’s sure Howard hasn’t woken, he continues shimmying himself forward until he’s got his arse out of range of Howard’s cock, feeling a bit lonesome for it as soon as he does. He consoles himself with the knowledge that it’s going to be a lot closer to him in just a moment. 

Vince hasn’t properly made his bed in a few days, hasn’t had the time to, really. A circular bed is a bitch to make anyway; the sheets are always a little fucked. Point is, he doesn’t always make it up, and when he doesn’t, detritus tends to make itself into the covers and pillows. The lube, he knows, is just such a piece of flotsam. The last time he and Howard used it, he just tossed it into the nest of pillows and left it there for the next time. So, it’s still there. He just has to find it.

He conducts a quiet, furtive search, his hand sneaking about like a vegan burrito on a party platter. He has a couple of close calls when he thinks Howard might have woken, but Howard doesn’t wake, not before Vince’s hunting is rewarded with the sharp, plastic edge of the lube.

As soon as his fingers seize it, his lip ducks between his teeth. The whole thing, he realizes, is turning him on. Howard, just behind him, totally oblivious, completely hard, hard as Vince without even knowing. He’ll know soon enough. 

Vince quietly uncaps the lube. He gingerly moves the blankets out of the way, exposes his naked flesh (and Howard’s naked flesh) to the cool night air. He peeks behind him just to confirm what he already knows. Howard’s prick is standing at full attention, inches from Vince’s arse, just waiting. Vince feels like he’s in a war movie. _I’ll come back for you_ he shouts, reaching out of the rising chopper to Howard’s prick, _no man gets left behind_. He smiles and squeezes lube onto his fingers, slicks them up. 

He’s no stranger to fingering himself for a wank, so the motion has acquired a touch of coordination over the years, but it’s not easy to keep his elbow from bumping into Howard. The angle isn’t the best in the world. Still, he gets his first two fingers into himself with no issue.

Howard’s sleeping breath is right at his neck, it gets directed in a little wind tunnel past Vince’s ear. It’s that as much as it is his fingers questing deeper inside himself that wakes up the little chills that shake across his skin. His nipples have gone tight, his prick is starting to leak _already_. Howard is only going to have to lay a hand on him and Vince is going to lose it. 

Howard who is so close to him, so warm. Christ, he’s right fucking there (still hasn’t got a clue), and he’ll be inside him in a moment. It’s so easy to imagine that he already _is_. Howard’s cock in place of Vince’s fingers. Vince finds the mark along with the thought and it’s good; the sensation is a wave curling over the channel of thought and Vince’s self-control is undone. He moans, his elbow jerks sideways and he nails Howard in the belly.

Howard wakes with a start, “Ah, what...?” he asks, but he doesn’t complete the question. It’s pretty obvious, apparently. After all, all he’s got to do is look down and he’ll see. “Oh,” he says, “you little _tart_.” 

Then (with zero prompting) he pushes Vince’s hand out of the way. Howard’s fingers are thicker than Vince’s, thicker and slightly longer. Howard knuckles along the crack of Vince’s arse, then presses into Vince’s slickened hole, “Christ,” he says.

“Got myself ready for you,” Vince purrs. He hands Howard back the lube, struggling to breathe as Howard probes into him. Howard keeps his finger inside him as he slicks his cock (Vince hears a wet pumping sound and cranes his neck around to watch the action) and as soon as he’s seen Howard make a thorough pass over himself, it’s Vince who’s slapping his hand away and shoving his arse back toward Howard’s prick. 

The blunt head of Howard’s cock presses inside him and it hurts just the right amount, the perfect burn. Vince wants it so damn much. “Howard,” he moans, rocking back while Howard’s hand tightens over Vince’s hip. He doesn’t move, and Vince isn’t sure if it’s because he _can’t_ or because he’s enjoying letting Vince struggle to get him deeper inside himself.

“Fuck,” he hisses and Howard snaps his hips a single time, and it’s so much better, Howard doing it to him, playing along with him, but he stops. Vince whines and Howard chuckles. So, yeah, he can move, he’s just not, the twat. 

“What do you want me to do, fuck myself?” Vince asks.

“Isn’t that what you were doing?” Howard asks in return. He slips his arm around Vince’s chest and holds him tight, slides his other arm underneath Vince’s hip, takes Vince’s cock in his slickened palm and holds it, and freezes again. He leans forward and sucks on the side of Vince’s throat, while Vince writhes and tries to get some fucking leverage, but, now, Howard is holding him still and Vince can’t get anything where he wants it.

Howard’s cock is just sitting inside him, hard, and hot, and thick, and not doing him any good, and Howard’s hand is around the base of his prick, neither end of him getting anything like what he needs (Howard’s belly is pressed into the curve of his spine, his chest is flat against Vince's back, he’s _everywhere_ behind him) (except where Vince needs him most).

“ _Howard_ ,” Vince says, irritated and turned on in equal measure, “this isn’t fair.”

“Mmm, I don’t play fair.”

Vince can’t help the little laugh that erupts, “What are you talking about? You invented rules, you—” his breath hitches, because Howard chooses that moment to _press_ a little more into him.

“I’m a jazz maverick, Vince.” He rolls his hips, like he’s doing a slow samba, he’s _nearly_ (but not quite) there, “Don’t forget. Jazz doesn’t follow rules,” (he’s moving; a lazy, steady grind) (but it’s not enough), “It goes its own way. Goes where it likes. Like a disoriented cat on a Sunday afternoon.”

Vince tries bouncing his hips a little to get some proper friction going, but Howard wraps him up even tighter and Vince is trapped. “Get lost, you jazzy freak,” he gasps.

“Hey, now. Is that what you want?” Howard asks. “I could just turn over and go right back to sleep.” He starts to pull away.

“Fuck you,” Vince whines. He can’t do much, but he can at least wriggle his arse enough to keep Howard inside him.

“Make up your mind, little man,” Howard grunts (his hand is tight around the base of Vince’s prick), his lips tickle at the cuff of Vince’s ear as he says (in a voice like Nutella-dark silk), “Am I fucking you or fucking off?”

Vince’s prick tries to arch up toward his stomach, but Howard still has it firmly in hand, so it just pulses desperately (Howard’s fingers squeeze _just a little_ ) (but _that’s it_ ) (it’s practically torture) (there are global organizations to prevent this type of thing, Vince is pretty sure), “Ah, Howard, Jesus. Come on.”

“On what?” Howard asks (absolutely fucking perfect; Howard is suddenly picking up double entendres like a hoover).

“My tits, my face, up my arse, wherever, I don’t care. Just _fuck me_ , yeah?” he says, ineffectually driving his hips back.

Howard kisses and licks a slow path along Vince’s shoulder, up his neck, up to his ear and back down again, holding him firm and not saying a word. Like a complete _twat_. “Maybe I would,” Howard says eventually with an absolutely in-fucking-sufferable calm, “if you stopped acting like a little tit.”

“I’m acting like a tit?” Vince asks (Howard nuzzles the nape of Vince’s neck) (Vince fights to rock back onto him, or to thrust into his hand, fucking _anything_ at this point, but of course, Howard clamps down and Vince can’t do shit) “You’re the one who’s getting off on not letting me get off. Dickhead.”

“Calling me names now?” (Howard’s thumb traces over Vince’s slit and spreads precum across his prick) (Vince can’t tell if it’s encouragement or not) (but Howard deserves a bit of verbal abuse for this anyway).

“Yeah. I’ll call you all the names in the book. Nonce, ponce, git, Charlie Entwhistle—”

“Charlie Entwhistle?” Howard echoes, sounding amused.

“Bitch,” Vince hisses, and (for whatever reason) that does it. Howard’s hips jerk and Vince feels it in his eyes. He wants more of that, and if he’s got to slag off on Howard a bit to get it, well— “You bitch,” Vince repeats (Howard thrusts again, his hand twists around the head of Vince’s cock) (at last) (yes, yes, yes, yes, yes), “fuck me, you dirty fucking bi—”

Howard surprises him, rolls them both over so that he’s on top and Vince is on his belly. He grips Vince’s hips, pulls him up onto his knees. He slips out mid-transition, but it hardly matters. Vince is back on him in a flash, and now, he’s got the angle, and Howard hasn’t got the right grip on him anymore to stop him, so, yeah, he gets him balls deep as soon as he can, and starts fucking himself on Howard’s prick like the desperate little slag he is. 

It’s not hard enough. He wants it so rough, that he sees stars.

“Fucking move, would you?” he says. He’s not begging, or even asking. He’s demanding. He reminds himself to go back to what works, “Christ, you’re such a bitch. I—" 

Howard’s fingers dig into Vince’s hips, “I’m a bitch, am I?” he asks, sounding out of breath (out of his mind) like he’s finding it almost impossible to speak. He yanks back on Vince’s thighs and thrusts forward into him and Vince cries out.

Not for the faint of heart, this kind of fucking, but, Jesus, if it isn’t what Vince was hoping for. Vince needs it like breathing. He moans and goes down on his elbows so that his arse is up in the air while Howard fucks him ungently. He pulls Vince back at the edge of every thrust, his whole weight thrown into every invasion of Vince’s body. It's amazing, it's blinding, a fucking religious experience that has him seeing through solids and hearing idiot whisperings transmitted over moonlight.

It lasts for perhaps thirty seconds, the hard, frantic fucking, before Howard starts making little huffs, little whimpers, the little warning bells that signal he’s about to go off.

“In me, stay in me, you... you bitch,” Vince manages to slur and that does it. Howard makes a choked sound and Vince knows he’s been done in. 

He pulls out of Vince, starts pushing at him to get him onto his back. “Suck your cock,” Howard pants, half statement half question, like there is some sort of chance Vince is going to say _no_.

Vince turns and gets onto his back and Howard doesn’t waste any time with preamble. His lips are around Vince’s prick and he’s got Vince edging toward the back of his throat the first swipe down. Vince kicks at the covers, everything in him coiled up tight. He grabs at the back of Howard’s hair, curls his fingers so that he knows Howard can feel the tension at his scalp while his head bobs up and down.

He puts his hand underneath Vince’s balls, pushes back at his hole, which is tender and slick with lube and Howard’s semen, and slips his finger inside him and then, fuck, he twists _just right_ and it all bursts apart in a sharp, hazy, shattering bliss.

Vince shouts Howard’s name. It’s the first thing that comes to mind, (an association that he realizes is starting to become fixed) (mind-blowing orgasm = Howard), and rides it out while Howard swallows him down, Vince blathering nonsense phrases that have mostly to do with Howard’s cock, and perfection, and how in love he is with everything.

Vince goes boneless and Howard crawls up his body, kissing him the whole trip through (pausing to place a little bite at the top of his hip) (pausing again to sweep his tongue across Vince’s nipple and make him squirm) until he’s finally near enough for Vince to kiss properly. The taste of his own spunk is on Howard’s tongue and that, more than anything, brings him back down to reality.

“I’m going to be well sore tomorrow,” he says.

Howard chuckles low in his throat, “You asked for it.”

“I did,” Vince admits. He traces the side of Howard’s face, pushes his dark curls behind his ear.

Howard is there, on top of him, between his thighs; his warmth and weight so safe and familiar, and just _right_. Vince feels near to bursting. Didn’t exactly go to plan, that, he thinks. Not exactly the half-somnolent fucking he’d pictured. Not that he’s about to complain. He laughs. “Sorry I called you a bitch.”

“Don’t make it a habit.”

“I won’t. You’d fuck me straight into next month if I did.”

“Sexual time travel,” Howard muses.

“They say it can’t be done,” Vince says. He slips his hand under the bridge of Howard’s arm and loops around so that he can put his hand on Howard’s arse. He gives him a little squeeze. It’s nice, Howard’s arse. Just the right amount of give back there.

Howard shakes his head, “Suppose you want to test the theory.”

“I’m game if you are.”

“Maybe. After some sleep. And a shower. And some breakfast. And a bloody grant from the government.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Howard says. “Only, I didn’t realize that bumming you would be a full-time job. Thought that I’d at least get some nights, weekends, and holidays to myself.”

“Get stuffed.”

“I mean it, if you’re not paying me, someone should be. It’s a lot of work, keeping you satisfied.”

“Yeah, well, you ain’t satisfied me, have you? If you had, I wouldn’t be gasping for it all the time, would I?”

“Can’t help that you’re a slag.”

“Dick.”

“Tart.”

_“Bitch.”_


	6. Sex Opera or Tie Me Up, Buttercup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another intended sequel to Boosh de Noel, this one is a fucking ride, you guys. I'm sorry.

“I don’t understand the appeal of this,” Howard says as soon as he comes out of his room. “This is… it’s working for you?”

Howard is wearing his flannel dressing gown, a pair of leather slippers, black socks, and (finally) (at last) the sock garters Vince had gotten him for Christmas. Every time Howard takes a step, the garters flash just a little in the gap between the edges of the dressing gown. They ring Howard’s shins, just below his knees, his pale calves segmented by tight black bands that press slightly into his skin.

Those sock garters are _very necessary_ for what Vince has planned tonight. He’s got a theory that he wants to test.

And listen to him, banging on about theories and plans. Howard would (should) be proud.

Howard, who looks like a post-war dad about to have the evening paper with a pipe and a glass of whiskey, like he’s going to go sleep in one of those rooms with two narrow beds all on his own while his wife sleeps only feet distant, but with no idea at all of what he might get up to in the night.

He’s a sitcom father whose sex life is confined to the missionary position, a half-dozen tepid thrusts, and a discussion of morals afterward. The type of man who _looks_ like one thing but could turn out to be quite another.

Which is Howard all over, really. So, yeah, it’s working for Vince. Very much.

Howard sees it on his face. “You ought to have your head examined, you know that?”

Only Howard would think someone fancying him is a sign of mental illness.

Vince ignores him and starts fiddling with the top button of his shirt, twisting it between his fingers. Howard’s mild annoyance crumbles away. He’s watching Vince’s fingers, possibly arriving at the conclusion that if Vince is mad, it’s at least a beneficial sort of madness. The sort of madness that ensures they both get laid.

“What are you doing here?” Vince asks, “Shouldn’t you be at home?”

“We are at—” Howard stops. His mouth goes flat (he’s figured out what Vince is about) (or at least scratched the surface). They are, obviously, in the flat. Naboo and Bollo are away, and while they are away, Vince likes to play.

Howard sighs, “Do we have to do this?” 

“What’s the matter? I thought you were one of the great modern actors,” Vince teases.

“This isn’t acting.”

“It’s close, though.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Sure it is,” Vince says. “Look, just think of it like improv, yeah?”

Howard looks unconvinced but he nods, “Alright, but nothing weird. No gibbering nymphomaniac badgers, or dildoes made out of rectangles.”

Vince snorts, “Course not, Howard. Don’t be ridiculous. Just normal sexy stuff,” (Vince only introduced the concept of a sex badger one time and Howard still won’t let it go).

“Yeah, well, that’s everything for you, isn’t it?”

“Calm down, freak show. I promise, whatever is going on in that paranoid head of yours is worse than what I’ve got planned, yeah?”

It’s obvious that Howard doesn’t believe him.

“Just, play along,” Vince encourages.

Howard rolls his eyes, “Fine,” he says. He looks down at himself, “Why on earth am I out in my dressing gown and slippers anyway?”

Howard’s a method actor. He’s got to understand the reasons behind his roleplaying. “You’ve made yourself comfortable.”

“Why am I wearing these sock garters, then? They’re not comfortable in the slightest.”

“Because I want you to wear them.”

“You in the fantasy or you in real life?”

“Me in real life, obviously.” Vince smirks, “It’s for the fantasy. Just pretend you’re the type of man who’d wear sock garters, alright?”

Howard’s face pinches up, “I don’t know what that means.”

“It’s not important,” Vince says (it’s not) (all that matters is that he’s wearing them). “Just remember, Howard. ‘Yes, and’.”

Howard looks like he deeply regrets having told Vince about ‘yes, and’. He probably regrets telling him about a lot of things, to be honest, but teaching Vince the number one rule of improv is probably his biggest regret. Seems like it must be, anyway, based on the weary expression he’s got on.

“Yeah, alright,” he says. He pushes his hair back (the garters peep out). He sighs. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Good thing for Vince that Howard’s evident lack of enthusiasm does nothing to dampen his. He really has got a plan for tonight, and he isn’t kidding about the sock garters being completely necessary for the whole bit.

Anyway, Howard will come round. He always does.

Vince slides his hips to the side, he toes the floor with the tip of his boot, and starts twining the end of his hair around his finger, “So, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at home?”

Howard shakes his head, “Um… I… had to get out,” he says at last.

“Your wife troubling you?”

Howard blinks, “My… _wife?_ ”

“Yeah,” Vince says with a filthy grin, “What’s her name again?”

“Patience,” Howard deadpans.

Vince smiles, “Patience giving you trouble?”

“Yeah, sure, why not?”

“Howard, _‘yes, and’_.”

Howard rolls his eyes, “Yeah, she just…” he tosses a careless hand up in the air, “doesn’t understand me. Or something.”

Vince likes the angle Howard has chosen. It plays well with where he wants to take them. “I reckon that’s true. She doesn’t know what you want, does she?” he undoes the first of the buttons on his shirt. He brushes his fingers underneath the edge of it, caresses the exposed sliver of skin from his neck to his chest.

“No,” he says a little dreamily (he’s starting to warm to the game).

Vince slips free another button and slides his palm down the midline of his torso, catches his thumb on the lowest point of the shirt, then folds his thumb back into his hand and slips it past. He follows the trail of buttons down the front of his body, hesitating over each one. He leaves them done up, though (gives each disk just a little _flick, spin_ ) as he continues down the line to the bulge that is slowly hardening within his drainpipes. Vince strokes his stiffening prick. Howard stares.

"This is what you want, isn’t it?” he asks, giving himself a little squeeze.

Howard can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Vince’s cock. He nods.

“You’re not supposed to want it, though, are you?” Vince asks, hoping that Howard will take his direction. “Big man like you, you’re not supposed to want my cock anywhere near you. You’re not supposed to want to fuck me,” he continues. He takes a slow step toward Howard, and teases free a button on his shirt. He keeps slipping them loose, every third word or so as he says, “but you do. You want to fuck me so badly, don’t you?”

Howard’s breathing has accelerated. His prick is coming to attention, it’s tenting the dressing gown, pushing it away from his hips. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. His eyes follow Vince’s hands like yappy puppies after treats; zigging left, zagging right, prancing excitedly any time Vince shifts aside some fabric.

Vince's shirt is nearly off, now. Only one button left at the bottom. He has both of his hands on his naked body, pushing at either side of his shirt, palms laid flat, one hand teasing up toward his tit, the other dipping down underneath his trousers.

Vince imagines her, Patience. Howard's tedious, nineteen-fifties wife, her dull pink housecoat, her hair done up in rollers. “What’s it like? Being with her? I bet she’s well boring,” he says. He imagines her reaction if she could see _this_. Howard, hard as a rock, Vince tarting himself up for his benefit, the pair of them completely, continually in lust.

Vince imagines Howard fucking this woman. It’s formulaic, boring. He doesn’t like doing it and she doesn’t much like having it done to her. They’re not in love. “Do you think about me when you fuck your wife?” he asks. He imagines her wondering what's gotten into Howard, when he starts thinking of him, pretending that he's fucking Vince instead of her.

Howard says nothing, apparently unaware that they’ve reached the part of the question and answer session that requires a response. Vince stills his hands and Howard looks up. Howard swallows, “I... yeah, I’ve... got to get through it, um, somehow.”

Howard probably wants the words to sound more put upon than they do. But his bluster is paper thin and not really glued on that well. Anyway, Howard’s eyes betray him as soon as Vince starts moving his hands again. He’s taking them on a guided tour of his body, hitting all the popular attractions; his cock, his tits, up his neck and into his hair.

Vince runs his hands down the open edges of his shirt and slides out of it. It falls to the floor.

He walks purposefully toward Howard, stops when they’re standing close to one another. He puts his hands on Howard’s chest, slides them to the lapels of the dressing gown, “I think about you too,” he says like he’s imparting a secret, “when I’m fucking my other customers.”

The spell of lust Vince has been weaving is suddenly broken. Howard snaps out of it, “Sorry, are you supposed to be a prozzie?”

Vince rolls his eyes, “Yeah. Christ, Howard, stop breaking character, will you?”

“Just… what’s happening here? I’m married, you’re a rentboy, and…”

“And I think about you whenever I’m fucking someone else.”

“I don’t want anyone else fucking you,” Howard states.

“No one else does,” Vince says, thinking Howard is missing the point of the exercise entirely, “but—”

“Not even in your own imagination,” Howard’s voice is suddenly dark. He puts his hand at the small of Vince’s back, pulls him in closer, so that Vince can feel the hard line of his erection against his hip, “No one fucks you but me. Who've you had up here?”

 _Ooo_ , this has just got interesting, and it’s just veered straight off book. He has a notion of how he wants this to go, after all, but now he’s starting to change his mind.

Vince fists his hands tighter into Howard’s dressing gown, “I… don’t want to say. I have to make a living somehow!”

Howard’s eyes flash, “You little tart. You spread it around anywhere, I bet. You take up with anyone who offers you a fiver and a pack of licorice bootlaces. I thought you were giving it up.”

“You were supposed to leave your wife,” Vince counters. The whole scenario is changing, his plan is slowly slipping away, but it’s always, _always_ so much better when Howard is playing with him, even if it doesn’t take him precisely where he wanted to go. Vince keeps one hand clasping at the dressing gown, he reaches up with the other to stroke the side of Howard’s face, “You were supposed to take me away from here. I don’t want to do it.” He tilts his hips up, rubs his cock on Howard’s thigh, makes sure that he can feel just how much all of this is working for him, before he says, “I can’t help that everyone wants me enough to pay for it.”

Howard’s eyes narrow. “You like it,” he says, accusingly (a little aghast) (vaguely perturbed) as he crowds closer to Vince. Their feet tangle and Vince lets Howard back him up against the wall. He looks up at Howard, freshly aware of how much bigger than him Howard actually is. “You like being the neighborhood doxy, you like playing Irma la Douce, you little bitch,” he growls.

Howard’s voice is ocean deep, a black rumble that vibrates from his chest and rushes over Vince like a riptide. Vince is so hard he’s finding it difficult to keep still.

“I’ll kill them,” Howard says and he sounds so fucking possessive, so much like he means it, that Vince actively fights the impulse to explode on the spot, to come without Howard even touching his prick, “I’ll kill anyone else who’s been touching you. I’ll—”

Vince can’t take it. He pulls Howard’s mouth down to his, his kiss hot and needy. He tangles his fingers into Howard’s hair, he thrusts against Howard’s thigh, urgently seeking some sort of contact for his desperate prick. “Fuck me,” he demands. “Oh, Christ, I need you—”

Howard spins him around so that Vince is facing the wall, his chest and stomach flush against cool plaster. He grinds his erection against Vince’s arse, and Vince feels a headrush of arousal spin through him. _Fuck, hell, fuck, damn, there goes the plan_. He’s only worked for weeks to bring it about, and now he’s setting it on fire and throwing it out the window because Howard has surprised him with whatever the fuck this is. Howard and his hidden fucking depths. This is why plans don’t work, why Vince doesn’t bother. It’s the moment that decides him, and in this moment, he’s decided he wants to let Howard vent his imaginary frustration on him _as hard as he can_.

Vince pushes back against Howard, turns his face so that he’s looking back at him, “I won’t do it anymore. I don’t want anyone but you,” (Howard’s eyes electrify) (oh, did he actually need to hear Vince say it?), “No one, no one but you. Ever again.”

Howard groans. He uses his hips to push Vince into the wall. Howard is over him, pulling at Vince’s trousers, trying to get them down, their bodies are lined up like they’ve been built for one another, and the sudden collision of Vince’s prick with the wall is nearly enough to send him straight over the edge. Vince hears the noise he makes, he tries to push off the wall, to give himself a little bit of breathing space (if Howard does that again, he’s going to come, oh, fuck, he can’t believe it, but he knows he will).

He tries to find something else to think about (anything); something other than Howard’s hands on his hips, than Howard’s cock hard and full against his arse, something other than how fucking much he wants _all of this_.

He closes his eyes, like it’s going to help. Doesn’t. Of course not, because Howard is _there_ too. He’s in his head, his dark eyes dissecting him, taking him apart, and putting him back together (making him new again).

Vince’s brain has gone one track; there’s only the bullet fast tarmac disappearing out of view quicker than he can see it, leading him directly to one place (the only place there is).

He opens his eyes, looks down and catches sight of the fucking sock garters just as Howard shoves forward with his hips. Vince bumps into the wall, his chin makes a little thunk, and his cock gets rubbed just _enough_ (a feather landing on it would be enough) (a dandelion seed) (a flake of fluffy snow); it’s too late.

He comes, swearing profusely.

Upon hearing him, Howard backs off, “Shit, are you alright? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, you twat. I’m fine… I just…” Vince shakes his head and looks down. “You made me—”

Howard barks a laugh, “What, in your trousers?”

Vince rolls his eyes.

“What are you, fucking sixteen?”

“Shut up, alright?”

“Well, this is embarrassing for you, isn’t it?” Howard looks exceptionally smug. “Howard Moon, makes you come in your trousers with nothing more than a little bit of rough talk, does he?”

“Yeah, well, not exactly,” ( _oh, really?_ asks Howard’s face), “Look, there was friction,” Vince insists defensively. Howard is unconvinced (pull the other one). “Whatever, I could make you come without laying a hand on you, if I wanted.”

Howard’s smirk deepens, turns wolfish, vulpine, slick and sly and all-fucking-knowing, “Mmm, but you haven’t done, have you?”

Vince hasn’t got anything to say to that. Good news is, though, Plan A is back on, no matter what Vince has to do to make it happen.

He just needs a minute.

He puts his hands on Howard’s hips and shoves him backward, pushes Howard against the opposite wall. Vince unties the dressing gown, pulls it off and drops to his knees all in one movement. Howard’s got a vest and white y-fronts on (the outline of his cock is, as always, impressive within the narrow confines of his pants), and the goddamn sock garters, and Vince has only just lost it, but it wasn’t like it was completely satisfying, so he’s pretty sure he’ll get it back if he just lets himself, and (psychoanalyze it if you want) the fucking outfit _helps_.

Vince fishes Howard’s prick out through the front of his pants, digs one hand into the meat of Howard’s arse (just to get a feel) before he grabs the base of his prick and takes the head into his mouth.

Net result is, Howard’s not so fucking smug now.

Vince unzips himself, pulls his fly open. His cock is slick and sticky with his spunk, not completely soft as he closes his fingers in a circle around the base of it. If he was trying to think of other things before, he’s thinking of nothing else now. Howard in endless permutations, fucking him, getting fucked by him, all of it. It’s like trying to force champagne back into the bottle after spraying it all over the kitchen (and only slightly less impossible).

Vince hears Howard’s head thud back against the wall, he arches his back, tries to get his prick deeper into Vince’s throat, but there’s no way that’s happening until Vince wants it to. He leans against Howard with his forearm, forces Howard’s hips still. Howard moans.

He teases the head of Howard’s prick with his tongue, swirling around it, popping it past his lips and sliding off, giving him, in other words, the least satisfying head he can think of. Just there, just enough to excite, nothing nutritionally sound. The fucking Jammie Dodgers of blow jobs.

Howard is struggling against where Vince is keeping him pinned. He lays a hand atop Vince’s head, “Let me—” he whines.

Vince pulls off Howard’s prick just long enough to say, “No.” He takes Howard’s hand and lays it flat against the wall, (Howard’s nails scrape against the plaster) (he makes a sound like he’s being drawn and quartered) before Vince goes back to the sloppy teasing.

The champagne is trickling back into the bottle. His prick is more than half stiff and getting harder now as opposed to the other way around. It’s not really had enough time to recover. If he uses it like this, he knows he’ll last for fucking ever; it doesn’t need to spunk, it’s already done that, and when he comes again, it’s going to be nearly painful. Already his own touch on it is both not enough and slightly too much, like a limb that’s fallen asleep and is being touched without letting the pressure off it.

“Oh, Christ,” Howard says, and Vince knows that he must have looked down and seen Vince stroking himself, he’s got that brokenness in his voice, the slight disbelief, like he can’t get over what a fucking slag Vince is for him (Vince can hardly get over it himself). Vince crawls closer to Howard, lets go of himself, reaches up and starts playing with Howard’s balls through the pants.

Or, well, really, he’s tracing them with a single finger, teasing along the spherical edge of them and dipping around to the crease and going around the other side. Howard is positively wriggling now; he’s gasping out little huffs of breath as he struggles.

If he really wanted to, he could break out of Vince’s hold on him with minimal effort, but he doesn’t. Which is only encouraging Vince’s suspicions. It’s time, he decides, to find out if his little guess is right.

He leaves off his teasing, kneels back.

Howard looks down at him, “What—”

“Shut it,” Vince says (Howard’s expression flickers like a candle near an open window) (his mouth closes).

Vince puts his hands on the back of Howard’s calves and tugs him forward so that he isn’t leaning against the wall any longer. His fingers trace around the back of Howard’s ankle. He slides his hand up to the narrow band of elastic and finds the buckle and slips it free. He unclips the sock garter and holds it against Howard’s skin.

Howard watches him with eyes that seem unable to look away (a soon to be captive audience).

Vince holds the back of Howard’s calf in one hand, slides his other up the outside of Howard’s thigh, trailing the rough elastic the whole way. Howard’s cock bobs, slick with Vince’s saliva, where it hangs out of his pants. Vince takes Howard’s wrist in his hand.

He guides Howard (who complies, meek as a lamb) to put his arm behind his back, clasps his other wrist and puts it back there too. He kneels up again, so that Howard’s prick is in his face, and gives it a chaste kiss, before he wraps his hand around Howard’s wrists. He slides the garter against Howard’s skin.

It isn’t a proper moan, or a groan, just a little whiff of sound, a little catch in Howard’s throat, that’s just enough for Vince to hear. _Yes_. Vince starts wrapping the garter around Howard’s wrists. He clips it shut, checks to see how tight it is, before he slides his hands back around Howard’s front.

Vince digs his fingers into Howard’s hips and pushes him backward again.

He’s a picture, leaning back against the wall. His eyes banked low, his lips just slightly parted, his face flushed. His hands bound behind him.

Even though this is what he’d had in mind when they’d started their evening, the whole thing hasn’t gone precisely to plan.

It’s still not going to plan.

Vince is looking at Howard and, now, he just wants to finish him. He just wants to make Howard come. He wants to finish him fast, just to prove he can, just to show Howard (and himself) that he’s not the only one in this relationship who can’t control his cock.

But tonight was supposed to be about something else. Now that Howard is tied up, they’re fifty percent there. Vince wants to prove that as well. That Howard is _his_. He wants to feel Howard surrender to him. Vince wants to fuck him as possessively and roughly as Howard was about to fuck him a few minutes ago, except…

 _No one but you. Ever again_. He hears his own words echo back to him and he wants that, too. Howard inside him.

Only Howard does _just this_ to him, makes him want it every way there is, all at once. _Can’t have that though._ He’s got to pick, and if he’s got to pick, he’ll pick the quick way every time. Can’t help it.

Vince dives for Howard’s cock again. This time he takes him deep, sucks him down and then takes Howard in his hand, works him with both hand and mouth, slurping and sucking, listening to the gorgeous fucking noises Howard is making.

He travels up and down an entire scale of them. Hits a high C and a low F, goes through a veritable aria of moans and whimpers. His knees go wobbly, his hips tremble. Vince cups Howard’s balls, slides back so that they rest on the heel of his palm and reaches back with his fingers for Howard’s cleft.

Howard shifts his stance so that his thighs are apart enough for Vince to tease up toward Howard’s arsehole. He rubs around his entrance through his pants, teases him with a knuckle, massages just enough for Howard to work back onto his hand, then Vince withdraws his touch.

He increases the speed at which he’s bobbing his head on Howard’s prick, pumps it with a little twist every time his fingers get near the head; Howard groans, _he’s close_ , so close. Vince should finish him. He’s chosen (hasn’t he?) to finish Howard like this, quick and dirty, in the hallway. So, he should finish him and forget about his own sore prick which has gone massively hard again. He should forget about anything else and just _do this_.

Only… he doesn’t.

He pulls off Howard’s prick and it feels like he’s just avoided crashing straight into a brick wall by millimeters.

Howard pants. “Christ, Vince, what…?”

Vince can’t help laughing at Howard’s tone of voice. Confused doesn’t half cover it. Neither does annoyed. He sounds like Vince has just burned a million euros for shits. He probably feels that way. Vince feels a little that way himself.

It’s temporary, though. Vince isn’t about to make either of them wait.

“I want you to fuck me,” Vince says.

“Fine. Super. Whatever the fuck you want, just make up your mind,” Howard says irritably.

Vince bites his lip. He’s pretty sure he’s made up his mind, but if Howard is going to go all snippy... well, this is all about control, isn’t it?

Vince stands. He tilts his head back just a little, he eyes Howard’s pants. It’s past time, really, for them to be off. He tucks his fingers under the waistband and pushes them down. Howard still has his vest on and that isn’t going anywhere, really, since Howard’s hands are tied and Vince isn’t about to untie him. No, no matter what else, Howard _will_ be tied up for what comes next. But, Vince realizes, he can move the vest, anywhere he likes, and Howard can’t really do much to fix it once he does.

He grins.

Vince hikes up the vest, exposing Howard’s tits. He smiles at them, happy to see his old friends, Howard’s tight little nipples that he knows from experience are as sensitive as anywhere on him. He lowers his face to Howard’s chest, his nose squishes flat, as he sucks one of them into his mouth.

“Gah,” Howard says, writhing as soon as Vince’s tongue flattens across his skin. He grabs Howard’s other tit and squeezes it and Howard whimpers.

Vince pulls away and Howard looks like he’s about to lip off again, but Vince doesn’t give him the chance. He finishes pulling Howard’s vest up, covers his face with it so he can’t see anything.

“Vince!” Howard squawks indignantly.

“Hush, now,” Vince says, in a sing-songy purr. He tweaks a nipple again and Howard dutifully wriggles in place. “Just stand right there, alright?”

Vince takes a step back. He’s still got his own trousers on, and, yeah, it’s past time for them to go, too. He takes the packet of cherry lube out of his pocket and then pulls them down, kicks them off into the living room. They land with a soft thud on the ground. Howard turns toward the noise.

Vince crinkles the lube packet and Howard’s covered face turns toward him. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Vince says. He flicks the lube packet, then he tears it open. The smell of synthetic cherry fills the air and the lube oozes onto Vince’s fingers. He squeezes a daub of it onto Howard’s cock, and then tosses the empty packet on the floor. The lube glistens like a sweet candy glaze on Howard’s cock, like the frosting on an éclair, but, tempting as it is, Vince just leaves it there (waiting).

Howard squirms. “Vince,” he says.

“Yeah?” Vince asks, teasing at his entrance already.

“I… I… what…?”

Vince groans a little theatrically as he pushes inside himself. “Oh,” he gasps. He’s got two hands and more than enough lube on both. He grabs his prick and starts stroking himself.

Howard, obviously, can hear him, but _he can’t see_. He shuffles in place uneasily.

“I bet you wish you could see me,” Vince says, trying to make the sound of his wanking as loud as possible.

“I bet _you_ wish I could see you. That’s what you like, isn’t it? Watching me watch you?” Howard says, playing a gambit. “That’s what gets you off, isn’t it? You conceited little titbox.”

Vince is duly tempted. Of course he is. He does like it when Howard watches him like the great big pervert he is, but, for now, Howard is going to be kept in the dark. “Shouldn’t slag off on me when you’re blindfolded and tied up, you know,” Vince teases. “I could leave you like that. Smear you with gravy, bring round a pack of hungry Alsatians.”

“Maybe one of them could finish sucking me off at least.”

“Mmm,” Vince says, pumping his cock a little more vigorously and adding a second finger to himself, “They wouldn’t have the chance. Your cock is all mine. They’ll have the rest. Except your tits. Your cock and your tits, I’m keeping those.”

“Thanks.”

“And your arse,” Vince adds, “I’m getting that mounted. I'll use it as a travel pillow.” Howard’s chest rises and falls rapidly, he’s still shifting about, like he’s got termites crawling up his legs. His long legs that lead straight up to his ramrod straight prick that stands about an inch from his belly, he’s so hard. It’s red and dripping. The lube has started trickling slowly toward the base, oozing like jelly out of a bakewell tart. “Fuck, you look gorgeous.”

Howard scoffs, his voice muffled under the vest, “I must look like an ass.”

It’s true that some people might, with dropped pants and a vest over their face, still wearing socks and with one sock garter wrapped around their calf, but (for whatever reason) Howard _doesn’t_.

“No. No, you don’t,” Vince tells him. “Fuck, your legs, your stupid long giraffe legs, and your… your cock… Christ, you’re so fucking big. You’re so…” Vince has to stop touching his prick. He presses deeper into himself instead. He’s nearly ready. Vince closes his eyes, “You’re wrong. I don’t get off on you watching me. Well, I do,” he admits, not wanting to lie _egregiously_ , “but… I get off on _you_ , Howard. I get off on you. I want you. Always you. Only you.”

Howard doesn’t say anything. Vince opens his eyes and he can’t see Howard’s face, of course, but he can see the way Howard’s throat bobs.

 _It’s time_.

Vince wraps his lube-slick hand around Howard’s cock and slides up and down his length as slow as he can make himself. He kisses Howard’s throat, under his ear, down his chest, down to his nipple. He sucks it into his mouth, just a quick little tease, before he takes Howard by the arm and guides him into his bedroom.

The Moorish lantern over Vince’s bed is lit, filling the room with little hexagonal beams of light. They dapple Howard’s skin as Vince guides him to the bed. He sits Howard down, leans him against some pillows so that he’s not completely flat on his back.

“You comfortable?” Vince asks.

“No,” Howard says, “My hands are tied, I can’t see anything, I’ve got an erection that feels like it’s been filled with dental cement, and you’ve apparently got all fucking day to drag this out.”

“All night,” Vince corrects. Vince crawls onto the bed, slings a leg over Howard, straddling him. His fingers trace intricate patterns on Howard’s chest. Howard’s erection bumps against his arse.

Howard makes a frustrated sound in his throat, “Can’t I… something?” he asks.

“You can pick one,” Vince says. “Your hands or your eyes. What would you rather?”

Howard wriggles underneath him. “Eyes,” he says at last. “I want to be able to… to see you.”

Vince smirks because of course Howard does.

He pulls the vest down off Howard’s face. “All right?”

Howard does a quick visual assessment of the situation (Vince poised over him, completely naked) (Vince’s erection slick and shining with lube) (both of them breathing rapidly). “Fuck,” he says.

Just about sums it up, really.

Vince wraps his hand around Howard’s cock, holds the head of it to his entrance and rubs it there. Vince tenses then releases the muscles of his arse, “You ready, Howard?”

Howard laughs, “Christ, Vince, I’ve been ready. Please, just—"

He pushes himself down on Howard’s cock, cutting Howard off mid-sentence (all he can do is groan and the sound cuts Vince down to the bone). The way Howard’s prick fills him immediately knocks more words straight out of him, “You’re so good, you feel... so good.”

“Vince,” Howard gasps.

“Oh, yeah, Howard. Say my name like that again, Christ, keep saying it.”

“V-vain,” Howard chokes out, his face twisting up like a wrung-out flannel as Vince slowly rises and then slides back down.

“You love it, you slag,” Vince says, his hips settling into a rhythm. He goes slow, rocking gentle and easy, his pleasure coming in long, gelatinous waves as he rides Howard’s cock.

“Vince,” Howard says and it’s poetry. It’s music. It’s _everything_. He grabs onto Howard’s love handles and pulls Howard along with him.

“You close, Howard?”

“Don’t stop,” Howard begs, “please don’t stop.”

Vince holds his own prick, starts spreading the precum over the head, “I won’t stop.”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Howard gasps. He closes his eyes, his hips thrusting up into Vince, the muscles of his shoulders bunching and cording.

Vince starts pulling himself off in earnest while he rides Howard, “Look at me,” he demands (if Howard wants to be able to see him, he should be _looking_ ).

Howard makes a warped sound deep in his throat. He opens his eyes, his face a paroxysm of agony as he watches Vince’s hand, stroking his cock in rhythm with Howard’s thrusts.

“That’s it, Howard. Keep… keep your,” it’s spreading (up his spine, down to his toes, over his skin), “eyes on the… on the prize. Watch me fuck myself on you. Do you think we could,” _nearly, nearly there_ , “we could go off at the same time?”

“Fuck, fuck,” Howard swears, “Oh, _Vince_.”

“I want you forever. I want you always. Only you. I only want—" Vince moans and Howard (beautiful, beautiful Howard) starts bucking under him like an unbroken horse forced under saddle for the first time. Howard’s back arches, his hips jerk. He loses his rhythm, fucking now sporadically, desperately, almost randomly. 

It’s just happening and there isn’t any more thinking. His mouth is still working. He’s still talking, but it’s just a litany, a repetition of the only word he’s got left in his head, “Howard, Howard, _Howard_.”

Howard shakes his head, his eyes roll back, and he hisses out a breath and Vince knows that he’s _going_ and it’s enough to do him in too. Vince watches his semen arch out and spatter all the way to Howard’s throat as Howard spasms underneath him.

Vince collapses on top of him, half out of his head, “I love you,” he repeats and repeats insensibly against Howard’s skin, “Fuck. Fuck, I love you.”

Howard doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move. He just breathes under Vince. For about thirty years.

Vince sits up a little, “I haven’t killed you, have I?”

“No,” Howard says. He inhales a trembling breath, “Nearly.”

“Sorry?” Vince asks.

“Mmm,” Howard says.

Vince shifts himself over to the side. He pushes Howard against his shoulder so that he rolls over a bit. Vince unclips the sock garter. Howard rolls back onto his back. He rubs his wrists a little. Vince waits for Howard’s arm to wrap around him, for the physical affection that will undoubtedly be combined with chastisement, or a needle; for the signs that indicate Howard has come back down, that real life is going to resume, but it doesn’t come. None of it comes.

Vince puts his hand on Howard’s chest, “That was alright, yeah?” he asks, wondering if he hadn’t got the whole thing wrong.

Howard looks at him, “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it was… fine.” Sounds like better than fine from how Howard says it, but then he looks up at the ceiling and goes quiet again.

“Then what’s wrong?”

Howard shakes his head, “Nothing.”

“Nothing’s wrong?” Vince echoes dubiously.

“No.”

“Something is wrong,” Vince says. “You haven’t, I dunno, called me a gallivanting titmouse or whatever.”

Howard snorts. “Sorry I haven’t been rude to you.”

Vince waits, sure that Howard will do something _now_ , the words are going to come, he’ll kiss Vince then tell him he’s a shithead. Just as god intends but… nothing.

Vince’s hand starts to tremble just slightly. He swallows, “If you didn’t like it, Howard, you should say, because—”

“I liked it. I liked it just fine,” Howard flashes him a smile. He shifts toward the edge of the bed like he’s going to get up.

Vince catches him by the arm, because this isn’t right, _something_ isn’t right, and he’s pretty sure that he’s not meant to let things like that slip by now that they’re properly together. “Howard,” he pleads, “I thought you’d—"

“Relax!” Howard says, “That was all fine. It was more than fine, okay?”

“Then what’s wrong?” Vince asks again. “Something is.”

Howard shakes his head, Vince sees the _nothing_ reforming on his lips, but Howard swallows it down.

Vince is reminded of an antelope on the edge of a clearing, looking this way and that, nervous of getting its guts ripped out. Howard’s face sets like he’s working up to doing something that he doesn’t like the thought of. He edges an apprehensive toe into the clearing, “Just…”

“What?”

“You just… you said a lot of… things.”

Vince wracks his brain for what he might have said that could have upset him and can’t come up with anything. “What did I say?”

“Nothing. Just… you shouldn’t say things that… you don’t…” Howard takes a deep breath, “Things you don’t mean.”

“What?” Vince asks.

“It’s fine if you want to play games or whatever, or pretend, sometimes, to be other people, but there are _lines_ , Vince, and—”

“You didn’t like pretending to have a wife?” Vince asks, genuinely baffled.

“No, idiot,” Howard says (which Vince finds massively reassuring), “The other bit… the…” Howard waves his hands in the air as he says, “The ‘no one but you’ stuff. The… you know. That.”

Vince laughs, full out _hoots_ with relief, with amusement, “The bit I didn’t mean?” he asks, “Howard, how thick can you get? ‘Course I meant that.”

Howard doesn’t look convinced. In fact, he’s giving Vince a look of such stone-cold disbelief that Vince almost doesn’t believe himself anymore.

But he did mean it, and it is true. He’s meant all of it, and he’s felt it for long enough to be sure of it.

He takes Howard’s hand, circles his thumb around Howard’s palm. “I meant it, Howard. Really. It’s a bit stupid, I guess, but… I did mean it.”

Vince might have sprouted a few new heads, the way Howard is looking at him. “So, I’m just supposed to believe that you're just happy with… this? With me?”

“Yeah,” Vince says with a sniff of laughter.

“What about—” Howard says, and Vince feels himself starting to lose patience. Howard never takes Vince at his word. He’s always got to doubt him, even now.

“What about me?” Vince asks, “If you want to be a shit and say you don’t believe that I can’t keep my hands off other people—”

“Take it easy,” Howard says. He closes his hand around Vince’s and only then does Vince realize he’s started trembling again. Howard swallows, “I just know what you’re like.”

“Obviously, you _don’t_ ,” Vince says tearing his hand away.

“You’ve never been,” Howard says, winding up to tell Vince a whole lot of things (he’s sure) that Vince has never been. But, there is only one thing that Vince has never been that matters in this situation.

He cuts Howard off at the knees, “I’ve never been in love. Until you, alright? Maybe that doesn’t mean so much to you, with your Mrs. Gideons and your random obsessions with people,” Vince says, years of stupid jealousy coming back to him in a flash, “but to me… this is a big deal. I’m not saying I haven’t been with anyone else, or whatever, but you’re _different_. Jesus, how much do you think I’ve made up? The whole lot?”

Howard looks like the answer to that question is a definite _yes_. “Fuck, I said I love you, and I’ve told you that I…” Vince doesn’t know what else to do, what else to say. He thinks about the years and years he spent in the wrong places (in back rooms) (in toilet cubicles) (in unfamiliar bedrooms). What he’d been looking for was never there at all. It was here, the whole time.

 _Here,_ as in wherever Howard is.

Vince sighs, “Howard it’s been you, pretty much forever. If I’d thought, back when we were sixteen, that you might be a bender, I’d have gone for it a lot sooner, but you always talked about this _girl_ or that _girl_ and I thought you were straight, and that I should just get over my weird little crush on you, because your best mate shouldn’t want to snog you, and I knew that, but I couldn’t get over it, even when I pretended that I was and… maybe, alright, that made me do some things that… but I don’t want to do them anymore, I don’t want to be with anyone else… and if you don’t believe that…” Vince is exasperated; there isn’t anything else he can say, now. “Fuck it.”

Howard stares at Vince. He’s doing one of his faces. Cornish Guilt, maybe? “Why?” he asks at last.

“It doesn’t matter. I can’t tell you, anyway, because I don’t fucking know. It’s just… true. So, shut up, and just believe me. Please.”

“You could,” Howard starts softly and Vince knows where this is going, too. He could go get off with any one of a hundred people tonight, and, yeah, he probably could but…

“So could you. Fuck’s sake.”

“Are you going to let me utter a complete sentence?”

“Not until you start saying ones that aren’t complete rubbish.”

“Alright, well, zip it for a second and let me finish. It’s not that I don’t believe you, it’s just that I can’t believe that you would choose me. Out of everyone. You have your pick, and to just… waste it on me—”

“Waste it? Howard—”

“Hush, now. I’m only saying that I feel… similar feelings. And—”

“Similar feelings?” Vince asks, grinning. For Howard, admitting that he has ‘similar feelings’ is basically the same as Mick writing _Wild Horses_ just for him.

“Shut up, for once in your life, you yammering little jackdaw. I’m trying to get round to… Just be quiet. Look, I haven’t got a whole lot of… I mean, you pretty much know what I’ve got to offer, and you must be pretty well aware of my lack of material wealth and the general quality of my circumstances which I know aren’t precisely advantages—”

“Why are you talking like an eighteenth-century country lord?”

“Shut up, or I swear, I’ll gag you,” Howard snaps.

Vince laughs, “That’s not really my bag, but if _you_ want—”

“You’re impossible. I’m trying to ask you—”

“What, to marry you?” Vince asks, with a smirk.

Howard doesn’t say anything. His face goes sheepish.

“Oh shit,” Vince says. “Oh, shit. Okay, I’m… just pretend I’ve… I’ll shut up. Just…”

“Well, you’ve stepped on my line, haven’t you?”

“Fuck, no, Howard,” Vince says, vacillating wildly between excitement and guilt. “Ask it. Ask me what… you want to ask.”

“Can’t we pretend I just did?”

“No, I want to hear it.”

Howard rolls his eyes (the longest eyeroll in the history of mankind), “Will you marry me?”

Vince grins, he throws his arms around Howard’s neck and pulls him into a kiss. “Yeah, yes,” he says. He kisses Howard all over his face (his lips), “Jesus, it’s feast,” (his cheeks) “or fucking famine,” (his temples) “with you.” (his jaw) “Fuck,” (his crow’s feet) (his left eye), “I love you,” (his forehead) (the bridge of his nose).

“Yes, okay. Alright. Just,” Howard laughs, “calm down.”

“No,” Vince says. He continues peppering Howard with kisses. He’s never going to _stop._

"Right," Howard says. He grabs hold of Vince and rolls him over onto his back, pins him down, and pulls himself out of kissing range. He might not be able to kiss him any more, but Vince is still explosively happy. He's grinning away, like a complete idiot, unable to do anything else. Howard’s expression softens. He brushes Vince’s hair off his cheek. “I love you, too,” he says.

“I know you do, you dick,” Vince says with a laugh, “You want to marry me.”

"Not going to let that one go, are you?"

"Never."

Howard kisses Vince (and nothing else matters).


End file.
